


Those Who Favor Fire

by CrookedneighborCrookedheart



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Epikegster goes a little differently, Other, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrookedneighborCrookedheart/pseuds/CrookedneighborCrookedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Curious, huh? Because you overheard me being a grade-A asshole to your friend?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>"A little of it comes from that, yeah. But I can admire a man who can admit it."</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After overhearing the conversation at Epikegster, Bitty follows Parse outside. Everything goes a little differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to finish any writing projects lately, so I've decided to return to fanfiction. It's been a while since I've written any, and it is my first time writing for Check, Please! so bear with me. 
> 
> This was born because most of the PB&J fics that I have read start with Bitty and Jack getting together and then bringing Kent in. So I thought, what if it started a little differently.
> 
> Title from Robert Frost's "Fire and Ice"

Jack slams the door. Bitty kneels before it, frozen. The sound of Kent Parson’s footsteps fade down the stairs. Or maybe that is just the bass from the speakers.

 What the hell just happened? Bitty leans forward and presses his forehead against the door, wondering if he should say something. He doesn’t want to make it worse, but he worries about what he heard from the other side of the door, and he worries about the look on Jack’s face when he opened the door, and he worries about what Parson said before he left, and he worries, and he worries, and he worries. He feels the door bend immeasurably towards him, and he is suddenly certain that Jack is leaning against it on the other side.

“Jack?” he ventures quietly. There is no response. Bitty isn’t sure if it is because Jack doesn’t hear him or because Jack doesn’t want to talk to him. He is sure, though, that the drop in his stomach that comes with the lack of response is relief. Perhaps Bitty isn’t ready to talk to Jack, either. He drops a quiet _I’m so sorry_ that he is certain Jack can’t hear, then goes back downstairs. He needs some air.

Downstairs, the party is still going strong. Lardo is still reigning champ at the beer pong table. Ransom and Holster are dancing with two girls in the middle of the fray. Dex is following Nursey around with a watchful eye. Everything is so normal.

Isn’t it funny how none of them know that something terrible happened just upstairs.

Careful not to make eye contact with anyone who might call him over, Bitty picks his way towards the door, and out to the porch. He is so relieved to make it outside without being spotted that he almost doesn’t notice that there is another person out there.

Kent Parson leans against the banister with his elbows pressing into the peeling paint, his head turned over his shoulder to look at Bitty. Shitty has retreated with his tub juice somewhere. Perhaps to get more. That means that Kent and Bitty are alone on the porch, though.

“Oh,” Parse says, “it’s you.”

The flat tone makes Bitty feel a little less bad about the next comment that comes out of his mouth, rude as it is, “You’re still here.”

Parse shrugs, “Didn’t feel ready to drive yet. I did my fair share of drinking tonight, and I am not trying to get myself killed, regardless of how regrettable my existence is right now.”

Bitty gets the sense that it is supposed to be a joke, a jab at how Bitty must view Parson right now. And he isn’t totally wrong; Bitty is thinking that Parson’s existence is relatively regrettable after hearing what he said to Jack. But there is something in his tone that makes Bitty think it isn’t just meant to reflect what _Bitty_ thinks of him. There is something in his tone that is sad and angry and hatful and makes Bitty a little sad, too. It makes him sad enough to join Parse at the railing, at the very least.

They are silent for a long moment, then Parse says, “That wasn’t how that was supposed to go.”

Bitty thinks Parse must be a bit more than a little drunk to admit that, so, yeah, maybe it is a good thing he isn’t driving right now. “I can imagine.”

Parse hums, but he doesn’t say anything more. He stares out into the front lawn of the Haus, then heaves a breath deep enough to hurt and lets it rattle out again. His head drops towards his chest, “Look, I fucked up. This is all a huge mistake. I shouldn’t even be here.” Bitty only barely resists humming in agreement. He figures that would definitely be rude, and his mama didn’t raise him that way. “So I am going to sit here until I can leave, but when Zimms resurfaces from the deep dark depths of his brain, tell him—” Parse cut himself off. “Nah, just keep an eye on him. He’ll be fine, but do it anyway.”

Bitty scrunches up his face, “Why?” _What am I keeping an eye out for,_ he is really asking.

“Peace of mind.” _Anything. Seriously, if the smallest thing seems off…_

“Who’s?”

“Yours, mine, everyone else who loves Jack Zimmermann’s.”

Bitty doesn't realize until later that that is an accusation and a confession rolled into one. For now, it is simply a statement of fact, and Bitty and Parse allow it to lull the conversation into quiet. At some point, Parse sinks down until he is leaning with his back against the banister, letting his head fall back onto the white wooden poles.

Bitty remains standing, staring down at a drunk NHL superstar who looks more hopeless than anyone Bitty has ever seen. His eyes are closed but tight around the edges. His mouth tugs down into a miserable frown, his lips pinched white. When he swallows, his adams apple bobs harshly, like he is forcing down something bitter, lest it crawl out of his throat. His hands lay loosely in his lap, but his limp limbs and his hunched posture scream of defeat rather than relaxation.

Minutes tick by. Bitty can hear each rhythmic click echo out of his watch. After enough had passed that Bitty has no hope of estimating how many it had been, Parse clambers to his feet and leaves without another word.

Bitty stares after him.

The door creaks open behind him. “Yo! Bits! What are you doing out here?” Shitty grabs his arm and pulls him back towards the party. “Everyone got worried when they played Yonce and you weren’t dancing!” Shitty stops in front of the door and looks at him again. Bitty worries for a moment that Shitty would suddenly know exactly what he is thinking like Shitty sometimes does. Instead, he just squints at Bitty and asks, “You alright, brah?”

Bitty figures it isn’t really a lie when he responds, “Just needed some air, Shitty.”

It still feels like one.

 

**Kent Parson** followed you.

Huh.

 

Bitty gets the notification the day after Epikegster, and his first thought is that it certainly isn’t what it looks like. It can’t be. It is a fake Kent Parson account that followed him for the hockey content, and the timing is just a weird coincidence. Or maybe it really is Parson and he followed by accident? Really, it isn't too hard to believe that @omgcheckplease would come up on his recommended lists. 

But no. It is a verified account, and no unfollow comes within the next few days. Bitty follows him back— It seems only natural. Plus, he is curious, and if some of that is misplaced curiosity based on a conversation he never should have heard and another conversation he never should have had… Well, no one else needed to know that.  

So Bitty follows Kent Parson on Twitter, and Kent Parson follows him, and Bitty likes every post Kent makes about his cat, and Kent likes every post Bitty makes, period. It starts the day of winter break and continues and continues so that every time Bitty picks up his phone during winter break, it is habit to read through the new texts from the SMH group chat and then read through his Twitter notifications, scanning for Parse’s name.

It is weird, but weirder is the way Bitty begins to enjoy it a little bit. It is a quiet acknowledgement of each other’s existence— of the fact that there has been something between them since that night on the front porch. It is small and incorporeal, but it is significant. It shouldn’t have been and Bitty couldn’t say why it is, but he could not deny that that is the case. As it turns out, sitting in silence with a person actually fosters some sort of connection.

All that being said, Bitty knows that this passive sort of interaction can only last so long. There is something in him that itches. He itches to know more; about Parse, about Jack, about Jack and Parse. About Jack-and-Parse. Liking each other’s tweets isn’t enough for Bitty, but he is also hyperaware that this is the same boy with whom Jack has some serious history.

Bitty hasn’t mentioned to Jack that he and Parse have been in contact, let alone the fact that they practically had a heart-to-heart the night on Epikegster. After Shitty pulled him back inside, Bitty had mingled the minimum amount of time that he had to in order to make his disappearance a natural event, than he ran up the stairs and recorded a vlog because apparently he doesn’t have any better coping mechanisms than talking to strangers on the internet. That means that he doesn't know if Jack came out for the rest of the night, and he avoided him the next morning, struck with the sudden fear that Jack would go back to hating him like he did at the beginning of Bitty’s freshman year. He sneaked some apology cookies into his bag and left it at that until the end of winter break.

After winter break, they seem to be back to normal. The team goes out to the pond for shinny, and Jack tells Bitty that he and Kent owe each other a lot of apologies. Bitty feels the words bubble up. It would be totally natural to toss into the conversation— _by the way, Parson followed me on Twitter, so I followed him back._ Bitty doesn't say them. He doesn’t know why, not really. There is no reason to keep this from Jack, and with the history behind Jack and Parson, it seems like Jack has a right to know if one of his housemates and friends is in touch with him. Even if it is just through social media.

Really, it isn’t like he and Parse are best friends or anything, so Bitty doesn't know why he feels like his stomach is digesting itself every time he thinks about the secret he is keeping from Jack, but he does. It’s terrible. He should just tell Jack and get it over with.

He doesn’t.

The tweet he makes after shinny becomes a tipping point on his other issue though. 

 

**Eric Bittle @omgcheckplease**  
It’s amazing how out of shape a person can get in just three weeks of break. And by amazing I mean terrible. And by a person I mean me.

**Kent Parson** favorited your tweet. 

 

Bitty stares at the notification.

Bitty thinks, _I should just send him a DM._

Bitty thinks, _No. No, I really shouldn’t._

Bitty thinks, _Really, it’s going to happen eventually. It doesn’t have to mean anything._

It sounds like an excuse even inside his own head.

Bitty opens up a DM to @90KParse, and begins typing a message. He deletes it. Tries again. Deletes. _This is so dumb._ He closes the window. Opens it again.

_Hey,_ he types, and he sends it before he can think twice about it. Now he’s committed. _You find your peace of mind?_  
It is around nine in Las Vegas. Bitty hopes that Kent is out doing something with his Saturday evening, so he would be too busy to reply for a little while. Bitty wouldn’t have to worry about his response until morning, if he is lucky.

Bitty is not lucky— not at all.

_Something like it. I follow this guy in Twitter who is supposed to let me know if there is anything that should break it._

Bitty did not think this through. This is a terrible idea. His fingers tap the screen. _Ah, that’s what I’m good for. I see how it is._

_So is this only about my Peace of Mind?_

What he’s really asking, Bitty knows, is if this is about Jack. Bitty doesn’t really know the answer to that himself. Is this about Jack? Sure. No one knows more about Jack’s history than Kent Parson, and Bitty definitely wants to know that. But Bitty also knows that he doesn’t really want to hear it from Kent Parson. Bitty thinks that this is just as much about not-Jack as it is about him, really. It is about a sad boy who sat on his front porch with enough self-hate in his voice to rot his own internal organs. It is about hearing that boy admit that he loved an old friend with whom it didn’t seem he could speak without slashing open old wounds.

_it’s a little bit about Jack. And it’s a little bit about you. But I don’t really want to talk about the Jack part, though. It wouldn’t be fair to him. I’m just… curious about you._

_Curious, huh? Because you overheard me being a grade A asshole to your friend?_

_A little of it comes from that, yeah. But I can admire a man who can admit it_

_And the other part?_

_the other part of it comes from standing with you for an hour afterwards while you waited out the drinks._

_Alright. Fortunately for you, I’m also curious. So tell me something about yourself, Eric Bittle._

_I’ll trade you. One for one._

_Deal._

 

It is a ridiculous way for this to begin. 

 

_1/31/15 11:47pm_  
Eric: Congrats on the win! That was a crazy finish in overtime!  
Kent: Thanks, man.  
Eric: Are you okay, though? That check at the end of the third looked pretty brutal.  
Kent: Yeah, I’ll probably be a little bruised in the morning, but I totally deserved it.  
Eric: ???  
Kent: That D-man and I have some history  
Eric: ?????!??????!??!!?  
Kent: Alright, buckle in. It was hilarious. One night we all went out for a drink after a game…

 

Lardo has her art show, and the whole Samewell Men’s Hockey team attends in nice clothes and on good behavior. Shitty gets into Harvard Law, and the good behavior goes out the window in favor of yelling congratulations in the middle of the gallery. It is only now sinking in that Shitty and Jack would be moving on to other places, other jobs, and other people next year. Bitty has heard Jack talk about future contracts, and he baked Shitty pies all through the application process, but he still feels blindsided.

He thinks Lardo feels the same way, but he can’t find a way to bring it up with her. He’s not sure she’d want to talk about it, and he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. But he also worries about how quiet she gets when Shitty talks about grad or Jack talks about apartment hunting.

Bitty spends a lot of time with Jack. Most days, that time involves sitting quietly next to each other while working on separate tasks. Jack sits that the kitchen table, editing his senior thesis. Bitty bakes; pies, muffins, puff pastries, scones. He’s branching out. Or Bitty sits on the floor of Jack’s room with his back against the bed, pretending to study for class while Jack works through plays at his desk, Sia playing quietly in the background. He’s also branching out. 

 

_2/17/15 12:17pm_

Kent: Hey, what’s the difference between a crumble and a cobbler?  
Eric: Kent Parson, do not blaspheme in my inbox.  
Eric: And why do you need to know anyway  
Eric: But okay, listen…

 

They lose in the Frozen Four. It’s great, objectively, that they made it that far, but it still feels like a failure. Bitty has a hard time looking Jack in the eye for a day or two. He can’t help but feel like he let Jack down. And Bitty knows that Jack is going on to play more hockey— to play more serious hockey— next year, but he just really wanted to give him this. Him and Shitty. A final hurrah or whatever.

Jack gives his dibs to Chowder. Shitty gave his to Lardo months ago. Ransom and Holster get matching A’s for next year. Bitty says yes every time Jack asks him to go for coffee with him, regardless of what is due tomorrow because next year he will be walking to Annie’s alone.

Bitty tries not to think about that.

On this walk to Annie’s, Jack is rehashing a story from his sophomore year— how Shitty helped him figure out that he liked history enough to make it his major, and how he got chirped endlessly for finally displaying interest in something that wasn’t hockey. It was a funny story, and seeing Jack animatedly talking with his hands should have lifted Bitty’s mood into the stratosphere. Today, all it seemed to do was remind Bitty that there was a time in Jack’s life before him, and there would likely be a time after. And that time could be coming very soon. Bitty has heard Jack say a million times that he’ll keep in touch and that he’ll come visit, but really? He’s going to be in the _NHL,_ for goodness sake. He’s going to be busy and he’s going to be traveling and he’s going to grow into something so much bigger than he is now. Or maybe he is just going to reveal that he is already so much bigger than the outside world thinks he is. Yeah, that sounds right.

Either way, Bitty is just a college friend. He wouldn’t be surprised if Jack kept in touch with Shitty forever, but they’re best friends. Bitty and Jack are just friends, and Bitty has been more trouble to Jack than most. Maybe Jack will forget about him.

Jack bumps him in the shoulder and the thought vanishes from his mind, “Hey! No checking outside the rink!”

“You just looked a little lost there.” Jack gestures behind them. Annie’s was two store fronts down.

“Oh goodness gracious, I’m sorry! I was zoning out. Not because I wasn’t interested in what you were saying or anything! It’s just…” Bitty let his shoulders fall a fraction of an inch, “one of those days.”

“No worries, I get it.” Jack pressed on one of his shoulders to turn him around, “Let me buy you something to make it a little sweeter.” 

 

_3/19/15 1:48am_  
Eric: How’d you decide you wanted to play hockey professionally?  
Kent: Idk, really. I liked it and I was good at it. It’s a pretty hard combination to argue with. Why?  
Eric: I don’t know what I am doing with my life.  
Kent: oh, mid-college crisis?  
Eric: Something like that. It’s just that Jack and Shitty (the one with the mustache) are graduating and they both know exactly what they’re going to do and I have no fucking clue.  
Kent: You have any ideas?  
Eric: I think having too many is more my issue  
Kent: Wanna run them by me? 

 

Graduation day comes. It’s a rough day for a lot of them; Shitty has to deal with his atrocious family members, Lardo stands by him for all of it, and Bitty tries to keep his tears in check. He and Jack spend a lot of the morning before the ceremony walking around their regular haunts. Jack takes him to Faber for one last early morning skate, then to Annie’s where he finally caves and buys himself a sweet coffee “just to say I’ve tried it.”

They walk around the quad where rows and rows and rows of seats have been set up in front of a large stage next to a separate set of chairs for the graduates. When the scene becomes a little too real to allow for a light mood, the boys turn back towards the Haus. Because they have been up since ass o’clock in the morning, they still have plenty of time to shower and get dressed for the ceremony once they get back.

While Bitty lathers shampoo through his hair, he thinks about Jack. He thinks about being certain Jack hates him. He thinks about It was a lucky shot. He thinks about how he smiled this morning and how he didn’t have to worry about Bitty fainted when he gently checked him into the boards. It’s cheesy in the worst way, but Bitty gives himself permission to think it anyway. _Look how far we’ve come._ It’s an emotional day, he gets to be a little sappy. 

 

5/18/15 9:51am  
Eric: Kent?  
Kent: Oh no, that sounds serious.  
Kent: What’s up?  
Eric: Please don’t get mad at me.  
Eric: Just hear me out.  
Eric: Or read  
Eric: Whatever  
Kent: Bittle. Just say it.  
Eric: Right.  
Eric: Jack once told me that you two owed each other a lot of apologies  
There was a long pause.  
Kent: He wasn’t wrong, but I thought we weren’t talking about Jack.  
Eric: We’re not. Not really. And I am not asking you to tell me what those apologies are for or anything, just  
Eric: Have you ever thought about making them?  
Kent: Some might call that presumptuous. Not to mention the fact that I kind of have.  
Eric: I know, I know, im sticking my nose where it doesnt belong. But if it goes both ways, one of you has to start.  
Kent: Right. But I’ve tried. I’m just kind of terrible at it.  
Eric: you mean Epikegster?  
Kent: Well I didn’t show up for the booze.  
Bitty didn’t know how to respond to that, and he already felt like an ass for prying, so he doesn’t reply. 

 

The ceremony is long, but it feels worth it at the end. The speakers speak well, the procession offers a sense of closure, and the people sitting around Bitty help him feel a little better about the whole thing. Lardo, Ransom, and Holster have a brutally sarcastic running comment about the entire senior class, but they cheer louder than anyone else when they hear Jack and Shitty’s names called. Well, they hear Jack’s— the microphone goes dead for a split second right as Shitty’s name is called. The boys walk across the stage to receive their diplomas, flip the tassel on their hats, and officially leave the Samwell student body.  
After, Jack meets Bitty and the rest down on the green amidst thousands of students and families. Jack hugs Lardo and Shitty first— they have lunch with Shitty’s family in half an hour. He holds on to Shitty for a long time, and Bitty doesn’t try to hear what they say to each other, but he doesn’t miss Jack’s emphatic “Thank you. For everything.”

Ransom and Holster get hugs, too, along with strong pats on the back and a lightning round of captaining advice. They ask, and most of what Jack came up with is pretty generic, but it is evident the the passing of the torch is emotional for all three of them. Jack thumps them both on the back one more time, “You two will do great. You’ll take good care of my boys.”

Bitty hangs back for a little while, fiddling with his phone, until he is the only one left from the Samwell Men’s Hockey team. He had just figured out the perfect words to tweet the moment when Jack finally came around to him. He hits post then slides his phone into his pocket. Jack bends down to hug him, and Bitty clutches the back of his jacket tightly in return.

Bitty stutters something embarrassing about seeing him on television as he pulls away. Jack laughs at him, “I’ll drive up before the end of the school year. You’ll see me then.”

“Oh. Of course.” They stare at each other for a moment, as if they are both reaching for something but it’s just a little bit to far. Bitty sighs and steps back, “Well, you get on outta here before you make me late for my flight.”

“Wait,” Jack grabs for his sleeve as he turns to leave. You should come visit me in Providence before you go back to school. It’s on the way up from Georgia, and then I can show you my new place. I think you’ll like it.”

Bitty can’t help the smile that crosses his face, even as he tries not to think about what the invitation means. _I think you’ll like it._ He also tries not to think about how the end of summer is awfully far away, and Jack might forget that he ever offered by the time August roles around. “I’d love that, Jack.” Bitty pauses, then adds, “Just keep in touch over the summer, and we’ll work it out.”

There. That way, if Jack forgets about him, he’ll know long before the time roles around to take him up on his offer. The calls will come with longer intervals in between before they stop all together. Or maybe they won’t. Bitty tries not to think about it.

Bitty feels like he’s been doing that far too much lately.

Jack nods and roles his hand through the air as if to say, _of course._ The idea that it was that implicit to him makes Bitty a little giddy, but he manages to wave casually before leaving Jack to his parents and heading to the Haus to pick things up before catching the shuttle to the airport. He wasn’t totally kidding when he chirped about missing his flight. 

 

_5/19/15 3:06am_  
Kent: Shit.  
Kent: I think you might be right, Georgia Boy.


	2. Assist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer in Georgia is fine until it isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter! I was kind of second guessing this when I posted it, so I am really glad you guys enjoyed it! I hope you like this one too. 
> 
> I don't know if it really needs it, but I'd rather be safe than sorry, so I am going to say mild trigger warning for a moment of panic at the end of this chapter.

Bitty returns to Georgia with mixed feelings. On one hand, he is looking forward to having some time off school work, and he always loves working at the summer camp. On the other hand… Well, there is a reason he left for college when most of his high school class matriculated naturally into Georgia State. He isn’t a big fan of a lot of the boys he had gone to school with, and they aren’t big fans of his. Given that they aren’t going to school together anymore, Bitty doesn’t really expect old habits to fall back into place, and they don’t. Not really. But Georgia is still… Well.

It is fine really, until the week before the Fourth of July. Not great, but fine. There are a lot of people who make comments about Bitty’s choice to go out of state for college. Usually they are relatively passive, and those are annoying, but Bitty knows how to grit his teeth and be polite because that’s how his mama raised him (“Isn’t that expensive?” “Well, I’m there on an athletic scholarship, so as long as I can still play hockey, it actually isn’t bad at all.”). Some people prod a little more harshly (“Georgia wasn’t good enough for you?” It’s said with a wink, like that hides the judgement underneath), but Bitty knows how to smile and sooth (“Of course not; Georgia will always be home! Gotta make sure the northerners know what they’re missing!”). And then there are the people that Bitty hasn’t quite figured out yet.

There are the people who make snide remarks about liberal communities ruining today’s society, the people who say that he should watch who he associated with up there because they might lead him off the _right_ path. These people are few and far between. Most, even in Georgia, will keep their harsher feelings to themselves in casual conversation. But when it does come up (like when he went into the carwash and Mrs. Hatten told him to “be sure to ask to change rooms if he was ever put in a dorm with a gay”), Bitty honestly has no idea how to respond (He stood gaping like a fish until Mrs. Hatten was called to pick up her car.)

So it isn’t great to feel like the town was analyzing his life choices every time school came up, and it isn’t great to hear their judgements when they chose to share. But Bitty can deal. And being back in Georgia isn’t all bad. Being back in Georgia means that he gets to use his own kitchen, and it means that he gets some privacy and a bathroom that he doesn’t have to share, and it means that he gets to see some old friends. 

 

His old hockey team goes out to dinner for a reunion of sorts. They meet up at the diner off the plaza in the middle of town, and Bitty has no trouble spotting them once he walks in the front door. There's a big group monopolizing several tables in a long row at the back, and yeah, that's them.

"Hey, Eric!" Theo shouts as soon as he spots Bitty. Bitty feels his face break into a huge grin, and Theo pushes up from his chair to come give him a hug. The whole table turns their attention towards Bitty, and it's the first time in a long time that he's felt good about it. Theo thumps him once before letting go, ”Man, I feel like I haven't seen you in forever! It's great to have you back!" 

"It's great to be back," Bitty laughs. He makes a lap around the table, greeting all of the people he played with and allowing himself to be introduced to the cluster of younger kids.  

"Eric here switched from figure skates to hockey skates like it was nobody's business," Jen tells their new left winger, Hal, once Eric has taken a seat and ordered a drink.

"And he’s ridiculously fast," Sam adds, "Seriously, too small to check anyone-- or take a check, for that matter—“ Bitty interjects with a small sound of protest, even though it’s true. Sam ignores him, “but it didn't matter because no one could catch him."

Bitty feels himself blush up to his ears, "Y'all're too kind. But thank you." 

Jen turns to look Hal in the eye, intentionally excluding Bitty while she tells him, "He'll have you believin' that he's no big deal, but you have to see this kid on the ice. Sam and I don't hand out praise willy-nilly, you know." 

Bitty covers his face with both hands, "Oh gosh, stop. Please." 

Sam nudges him in the ribs with an elbow, ”Hey, you play with all these big college kids now, we figure you need someone to remind you that you're pretty incredible, too, Cap." 

“You’re really too kind. Anyway, how’s school?” 

It was a less than subtle way to redirect the conversation, but Sam accepts it. “This year was amazing! New York is so cool! I’m thinking about majoring in marketing, but I have another year to decide. It’s weird coming back though, everyone asks me weird questions about going away for college, and it’s just… weird.”

“Yeah, I can relate.” Bitty commiserates with her on that topic until their attention is pulled away by some ruckus at the other end of the table.

The rest of the evening is much of the same. Bitty laughs until his stomach hurts while he and Theo compare their experiences in frat houses, and compares notes on nutrition classes with Heather. Jen tells him that she was captain this past year, but she passed the title on to James when she graduated in May. Kyle decided to switch from playing forward to playing defense in a pair with Alex, and it turns out that was a whole untapped well of potential. 

“Really, you should see how different of a player his is now,” Sam interjects.

“I’d love to, actually. Maybe we can all find a day to get some ice time at the rink?”

“Yes! That would be amazing!”

With that promise in the air, the team took a ridiculously long time trying to figure out how to split the check, then disbanded for the evening.

Bitty walked home alone in the muggy Georgia night, and thought that nights like this make being in Georgia feel okay, even when he misses the Haus, even when he misses his team, even when he thinks next year won’t be the same without Jack and Shitty. 

 

Bitty keeps up with the Samwell team, though, and that makes him feel close to them despite the distance. The group chat stays alive, and Bitty finds himself glued to his phone enough that his mother demands that he put it in the other room during dinner time. It’s fair, but Bitty doesn’t really make an effort to pull himself away more. Who can blame him, really. Holster uses memes to describe his days, Shitty has a running commentary going on his family while they are up at a summer house in Idaho, and Dex sends pictures of Nursey holding lobster as far away from his body as possible with captions like “he’s so bad at this i want to cry.” It’s solid entertainment to say the least.

He Skypes with Jack when he’s not busy conditioning for the start of the season in September or doing PR to get the fans pumped. He Skypes with Shitty whenever he is free because Shitty seems to be dying of boredom, and it’s really no hardship. Ransom and Holster Skype once when they are together for a week in mid-June.

Bitty even keeps up with Kent Parson. It their own way. At the end of June, Bitty makes a tweet complaining about bad drivers, and Parse retweets and adds something about assholes who don’t use their turn signals. A few days later, Parse tweeted a complaint about hot weather, and Bitty had words to say about him complaining when he was at his home in New York for the off season. He should come down to Georgia and then see if he still complained, Bitty told him. Parse sends him a DM complaining about the winger on his line because he can’t complain to anyone on his team without seeming like a bad captain. Also an asshole.

Bitty is a camp counselor from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon (and those adventure become his main contributions to the SMH group chat) and spends his evenings hanging out with people, whether that is in person with his old team or digitally with his new one. It’s busy, but it’s fun, and his summer is pretty decent.

It’s not until his family begins to filter in the week before the Fourth of July that Bitty realizes he’s actually hasn’t spent a lot of time at home. He finally notices because it suddenly becomes all he does. And that is when his summer really goes down hill.

The Fourth of July is a big deal in the Bittle household, and the celebration lasts much longer than the actual day. Branches of his mother’s family and his father’s start to come over for dinners and lunches, and it becomes a little hard to remember who is related to whom and how.

But that much is workable; Bitty is the oldest of his cousin’s on his mother’s side and the youngest of his cousins on Coach’s side. If he can’t remember how he’s related, he can just say “Ma’am” or “Sir,” and his mother gets a compliment on how polite her boy is.

The real problem with family is that they feel a little more justified in sharing their opinion.

On Wednesday, Bitty hears his grandfather tell Coach that he’s glad Eric stopped figure skating. He’s much more respectable now. Bitty’s used to that by now. He still goes upstairs to Skype Jack and wish him a happy Canada Day.

On Thursday, Aunt Karen tells him that his shorts look like girl’s shorts. Bitty goes upstairs and looks at his closet. He didn’t realize how much his wardrobe had changed since going to Samwell.

On Friday, his older cousin Brant asks him about his major. Bitty tells him about American Studies and intentionally leaves out the bit about taking a foods class.

Saturday rolls around, and it’s the Fourth of July.

The house is full. Mama’s parents drove in from Columbus (Georgia, not Ohio) that afternoon and would be staying with them overnight. Coach’s parents had gotten in from Charleston (Georgia, not North Carolina) on Tuesday. They were staying with Coach’s sister in Atlanta, but they had come for dinner, too. It’s only an hour away, but Bitty was happy that he didn’t have to be in that car on the way to Madison. Coach’s sister and her husband had three grown kids, two of whom had brought girlfriends, which means that there were nine adults crammed into two five-seat cars. Mama’s sister had come with her husband and their four children, but they only live across town.

Nineteen people come for dinner at the Bittle household. The four little kids sit at the kitchen table, and the parents and grandparents took the dining room, so the older kids— Bitty and his older cousins and their girlfriends— sat on the couches in the den.

Bitty takes one of the arm chairs, folding his legs up into the seat, his plate balanced in his lap. Brant claims one end of the couch closest to him, and his girlfriend Angelica sits next to him. The others fill in the remaining space. Bitty asks them about their work, and they ask him about school, and the baseball game on the TV fills in the silences in between. The adults always stop in the den when they walk between the kitchen and the dining room to check the score.

And it’s fine until it’s not.

The game goes to a break and the commentators start filling the time with miscellaneous sports chatter. _This is so-and-so’s worst game in a while_ and _So-and-so has had an incredible season so far._

_“You know, Jake, there has been a lot of talk in the world about the gay marriage ruling that passed in the supreme court last week.”_

_“Very true. There was a big parade here in New York. I can’t remember the last time the city looked so alive— at that’s saying something! It’s New York!”_

_“There has been a lot of speculation about how this will affect people in the public sphere. In the past couple of years we have seen a lot more openly gay celebrities, and it will be interesting to see how this affects that shift. And of course, the big question: will that bleed into the world of sports? These players are people with die-hard fans. It’ll be real interesting to see how this might change things.”_

Someone standing behind Bitty tisks. Bitty feels his heart stop.

Grandpa Bittle stands with one hand on the back of the armchair. “It’s just a pity.”

Angelica raises an eyebrow in a curious way. Her voice is passive and polite, “The marriage equality ruling?”

Grandpa nods his head sagely, “It’s just not right. They shouldn’t be encouraging that sort of behavior. That’s our government— they’re supposed to be doing what’s best for the people.” Bitty feels a little bit like he’s going to vomit. The worst part about it isn’t even the words; it’s the way Grandpa sounds sad and disappointed. That’s a million times worse than any sort of angry bigotry Bitty has feared in the past.

Brant shrugs, “I don’t know about right and wrong. I just think it’s a little gross.”

And now Bitty needs to get out of here. He worries for a minute that it will be too obvious if he leaves now, but he quells that thought with the rationale that it will be a lot more obvious if he bursts into tears in the den. He barely hears Angelica’s gentle chiding, “Don’t be like that.” He’s halfway up the stairs by the time Brant grumbles a response.

Bitty throws himself into his room and locks the door behind him. He slides to the ground with his weight on the door and lets his head thunk back against it. He looks at the sun where it shines through his bedroom window on its way down. He tries not to cry. He knows he will any way. He thinks about how that was far from the worst thing that people have said around him— or even about him— about being gay.

He thinks about straws and the camel’s back.

He thinks about Grandpa Bittle, and he thinks about how he wasn’t thrilled with the figure skating but still came to the championships when Bitty invited him. He thinks about how Grandpa Bittle came to his first hockey game when he switched over because he was already in Atlanta and ‘it was never any trouble to come see my grandbaby.’

He thinks about the disappointment and the sadness and _the disappointment the disappointment the disappointment_ in his voice downstairs, and he thinks about how it wasn’t directed at him but it really was directed at him, and he thinks about how he never wants that _really_ directed at him.

He thinks about how he really can’t be here right now. Bitty needs to get out. Now.

There is a knock at his back.

“Eric?” Mama asks, and he knows that she knows it’s serious because she doesn’t call him Dicky. He scoots himself to the side and reaches above his head to unlock the door.

It creaks open, and his mother pokes her head across the threshold. It takes her a second to find him pressed up against the wall. When her eyes land on him, she steps through and closes the door again, sinking down to sit pressed up against his side and wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

“You know, your daddy and I love you. No matter what.”

His mother says it mildly, softly, and that is the thing that breaks him. Tears finally start falling down Bitty’s face, and he turns his face into his mother’s arm and lets them go. They don’t say anything else for a long time.

He thinks again, _I need to get out._

Once the thought takes hold, he can't shake it. Bitty worries that he is maybe being a little dramatic, but then he imagines trying to look his grandfather in the eye for the rest of the night and he remembers all the things people have said to him since he’s been home. His issue isn't really what happened downstairs. It's just that after that, all the other things that he's put up with this summer seem a lot less bearable. He takes a moment to try and balance it with how nice it was to see his old team and how much he loves being a councilor, but the equation doesn’t work out.

_I need to get out._

So he asks his Mama to be left alone for a little while. She offers to tell the family that he isn’t feeling well, and he loves her more than ever. She closes the door behind her when she leaves.

Bitty is still crying when he pulls out his phone and calls Jack.

And it goes to voicemail.

_Oh no. No no no. Please pick up please please please._

He dials again, and he gets Jack’s voicemail.

Maybe he’s just in the bathroom? Bitty decides to give it a minute. He opens up Twitter because that’s what he always does. He’ll delete these later, he tells himself. He just needs to shout into the void for a moment. 

**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease  
I need to get out.

**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease  
No seriously. Out of house. Out of Georgia. I can’t do this.

**Kent Parson** favorited your tweet. 

Bitty tries Jack again. His hand are shaking, and he starts to cry a little harder when it rings more than four times. Just when he thinks it is going to send him to voicemail again, the line is picked up.

“Jack?” Bitty asks, and if his voice comes out a little desperate, Bitty thinks it’s justified.

The background is a little noisy, like Jack is out somewhere, and when he responds, it’s low and rushed, “Hey Bittle. I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back later.”

The line disconnects.

And that is somehow so much worse that it would have been if Jack hadn’t picked up at all. Bitty has a heart attack. Or it feels like he does. He can’t breath, and he’s crying, and he’s keeping it quiet because the walls in this old Georgia home are worn thin. His throat aches as he swallows down the impulse to gag, and he tries his best to suck in a deep breath through his nose. It hurts his chest.

**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease  
I need to fucking leave.

And maybe the swear is a touch too much, but he’ll delete it later, and he really can’t think too hard about that right now.

He scrolls through his phone contacts, and he sees a million people he could call— Shitty, Ransom, Holster, Lardo— and wonders why he can’t. He feels a little sick at the thought of it; his stomach drops, his skin crawls, and his throat closes.

He’s ashamed to look his family in the eye, right now. It’s no wonder he’s ashamed to tell his friends that he’s a screw-up.

**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease  
I don’t have anywhere to go. My friend’s not answering. Oh goodness.

He already set his mind to the task of leaving. He can’t get his mind off the possibility. He has to follow through. He has to…

He tries Jack one more time, and it doesn’t even ring before going to voicemail. He turned his phone off.

Bitty feels a little foolish for the desperation that continues to build in his body. He knows that even if Jack had answered, he isn't going to be able to go anywhere until tomorrow morning. But he needs a plan. He needs to know that there is something waiting for him. Some safe haven far from here.

**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease  
Oh please oh please oh please.

**Kent Parson** favorited your tweet.

His phone buzzes a heartbeat after he clicks the screen dark. Bitty swipes it open again. He stops breathing when he sees the message waiting for him.

_7/4/15 7:56pm_  
Kent: Come to New York.  
Eric: what?  
Kent: You were trying to go to Providence, right?  
Kent:I’m saving you two hours of travel until Zimms picks up his phone.  
Kent: It won’t be until late tomorrow.  
Kent: And he won’t be home for a few days after that.  
Kent: He’s at a big charity function with bob and then he’s flying to Montreal in the morning. He’ll be there for a few days to spend time with his parents then fly back. It’s what he does every year around the fourth of July.  
Kent: So come to New York until he pick up his phone or comes back to town or whatever.

Now that Kent’s said it, Eric remembers Jack outlining these plans to him the other day while they were Skyping. He feels a little dumb for forgetting but he files that away for later. For now, he types out the only response he can think of.

Eric: Are you being serious right now  
Kent: Dude, I know I’m an asshole, but I’m not that big of an asshole. It’ll be just a night or two until you have somewhere else to go.  
Eric: Are you sure youre serious because i am going to say yes and then you’ll be stuck with me  
Kent: Tell me when you get in.  


_7/5/15 9:01pm_  
Eric: Greyhound gets into the station at W 41st at 7 tomorrow evening.  
Kent: Cool. Take the A or the C train to 86th. Text me when you’re on the train. I’ll meet you there. 

Bitty switches between the conversation and the confirmation email for his bus ticket and is stuck between horror and confusion and relief and a million other emotions he doesn’t have the energy to name. This is by far the weirdest thing that has ever happened to him.

His mother comes up a few minutes later to tell him that they are heading out to the fireworks. Bitty tells her that he’s going to New York tomorrow morning. He hasn’t seen her look so sad in a long time, but she nods her understanding.

“Are you coming back this summer?” she asks. “Or are you just gonna wait until the start of school?”

Bitty shrugs, “I’m not sure yet. There isn’t much that I have here that I need for the school year— most of it is still at the Haus— so I don’t think I need to decide yet. I’m just gonna see how I feel, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course it is, baby.” Mama pulls him into a hug, pulling his head down into the crook of her shoulder and running her fingers through his hair. “Just let us know. Do you need a ride to the station in the morning?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

Bitty smiles, small and shaky, at his mother. He had imagined coming out to his mom a million times and none of those hypotheticals went like this. He was so grateful at how well she seemed to be taking it. So, so grateful. He needs to pack a bag and get to sleep because he’s kind of exhausted and his bus is early. Before he sets to the task, he opens twitter up one more time.

**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease  
Weird mutual friend with the assist. Thank goodness.


	3. Welcome to New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York is the land of opportunity (Or, the Chapter Three Take Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is a different chapter three than the chapter three that I originally posted a few weeks ago. 
> 
> I think I owe you guys an explanation. I posted that chapter three, but I really didn't feel that great about it. I thought I would just let it be and move on, and next chapter would be better. But I couldn't shake the feeling that it just wasn't what I wanted to put out there for this story, and it wasn't the best I could do. So I took it down. 
> 
> (I only realized later that I took it down before I responded to your lovely comments, so to everyone who did comment on the original chapter three, thank you so much for your love and support, and I am so sorry that I didn't pay it back to you then! I do really really really appreciate it <3 ) 
> 
> Here's the thing. I took it down right as I was graduating and starting my summer job. Add that to the fact that I already wasn't feeling great about where this story was, and you can imagine that I had a hard time getting myself back to working on this. When I finally did, I realized that this was not a quick-fix, like I had hoped it was. There was a lot that I felt wasn't right. So I got to work on it, but I didn't get to write every day because of my job and because it was hard and not always super fun. I want to say thank you to all of you guys who left kudos between then and now because it really gave me the motivation to keep going! 
> 
> Now, like three weeks later, I finally have something that I like, and I hope that you like it, too. (Or like it better, if you read the earlier version)
> 
> A lot of it is the same, but a lot of it is new, too. It's almost double the length that it was before, so there is that. So here is this for now, and hopefully the next installment will come within the next week. 
> 
> Thank you for all of your support, and I hope you guys enjoy!

Bitty gets up obnoxiously early to ride to the bus station. His mom makes him breakfast, and Coach comes down to say goodbye. His grandparents are asleep in the guest room. The young(er) Bittles stay quiet so as not to wake them. No one has told them that Bitty is leaving because no one wants to explain why. Besides, they’re leaving early and won’t miss him. Bitty tries not to feel like he’s running away. When he finishes his pancakes, Mama drives him to Atlanta where he hugs her again, and she wishes him the best. 

It’s a fourteen hour bus ride to New York from Atlanta. He has his earbuds in and playing old country songs. It’s a little masochistic because those songs scream Georgia summers, but it is also a little cathartic. Bitty cries a bit, but no one is sitting next to him, and he keeps his head turned towards the window. 

Bitty spends a lot of those fourteen hours thinking. Mostly, he thinks about Jack. It’s probably not fair to be mad at him, but that doesn’t change the fact that Bitty is. Bitty's also a little mad at himself for not being able to stop being mad at Jack. It’s just adding to the list of things that Bitty is doing that aren’t fair to Jack. Like talking to his ex-best-friend and not telling him. Like becoming maybe-friends with this ex-best-friend and not telling him. Like going to spend a few days in the New York apartment of this ex-best-friend without telling him. 

Really, Bitty is kind of a terrible friend. 

There is a small voice in the back of his head that whispers that Jack isn’t necessarily being the best friend, either. He wasn’t there when Bitty needed him. Bitty hates that part of himself because he really shouldn’t be trying to justify himself with petty baggage like that. 

Really, Bitty is kind of a mess, right now. 

He’s so grateful when he finally feels sleepy enough to doze for a little while, and he doesn’t wake up again until the bus is two hours away from New York. He listens to a mellow indie playlist off his phone until they pull into the station. 

When he finally gets to stand up, his joints pop and his muscles ache. Outside, he stands on the sidewalk, close to a telephone pole so that he is out of the way of rushing commuters, refusing to move for a moment. He is tired down to his bones, despite spending the whole day sitting still. It is the way of travel, but it sucks. He resents the fact that he still has to take more public transportation, but he heaves a sigh and looks for the subway platform because there really isn’t anything else to be done.

It doesn’t take him long to find the concrete steps leading down under the sidewalk. On the platform, he shoots a quick text to his mom while he waits, then pulls up Twitter. 

 

 **Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease 

You’d think the T would prepare me for the NY subway. I still think I am going to get lost. 

 

His phone buzzes not a breath later. 

 

 _7/5/15 7:34pm_  
Kent: When I said “tell me” I meant send a text. not whine on twitter and hope i see it  
Eric: Oh hush. I was getting around to it  
Kent: Are you on the train?  
Eric: It’s pulling up now.  
Kent: Cool, see you in 15

 

There’s a loud group of guys on the car with him, and Bitty worries a little bit that they are going to knock into him every time they switch seats. (Which is way too frequently, by the way. Seriously, it’s a fifteen minute train ride. Sit down and stay there, for goodness sake.) There is a girl talking to someone on the phone, and Bitty hears her say that she’s getting off at 86th, so he uses her to make sure he doesn’t miss his stop. 

Bitty finds Kent at the top of the stairs as soon as he gets off the subway. He’s leaning up against the railing of the stairwell, looking almost exactly the way he did the last time Bitty saw him in person. He wears a baby blue button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark jeans, and a cap facing backwards on his head. Kent is scrolling through something on his phone, then he glances up and scans the crowd flooding upward. His eyes find Bitty after a moment, and he pushes up from where he was leaning, waiting for Bitty to make it to him. 

“Good to see you, Eric.” Kent hold his fist out. 

Eric bumps it, “Thanks for having me.” 

“No problem.” Kent slides his phone into his pocket and points up the street. “We’ve got a couple of blocks to walk, but it’s not too far. That all you have?” 

Eric adjusts the shoulder strap of his small duffle self-consciously as Kent begins walking. “For now, yeah. I don’t really… have a plan yet?” He feels so stupid saying it out loud. “Once I figure out what I’m doing for the rest of the summer, I’ll figure out what I’m doing in terms of my stuff, I guess.” 

“Fair enough. You okay, though?” 

“Yeah. Or I will be, I guess… I am for now?” Eric stops. His shoulders slump, “I don’t really know.” 

“I get that.” Kent takes a moment to look him over from head to toe. He nods as if satisfied, then starts walking again. “Oh hey,” Kent pauses in their walk a moment later, “have you ever  
been to New York before?” 

“No?” 

Kent waves a hand towards a store front as they walk by, “This is a great bakery. I think you’d appreciate it. I can bring you back for breakfast if you’re interested?” 

And just like that the discomfort eases. Eric doesn’t know his shoulders were tense until he feels them relax. “That’d be nice. Thanks.” 

Eric and Parse walk a few more block, and Kent points out stores and restaurants he likes as they pass them. They take a brief jaunt through Central Park, and Kent tells him about growing up in the city— how he used to spend hours in the public parks after school. Kent talks for most of the walk, and Eric is grateful for it because he’s not really sure what he would say if it were left up to him. He’s more than content to just listen.

A handful of blocks after they leave the park, Kent turns onto a cobblestone walkway leading to a looming high-rise. There is a small garden cut into the concrete off to one side, enclosed by a low brick wall. A tall, thin doorman dressed in a pressed black uniform stand by the door. There’s a revolving door, too, but Kent heads for the doorman. 

“Good evening, Randy.” 

“Good evening, Mr. Parson. Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” Kent holds a hand out in Eric's direction. “This is my friend, Eric Bittle. Eric, this is Randy. Eric is going to be staying with me for the next few days.”   

“Send me an email; I’ll add him to the list.” 

Kent aims a finger gun in his direction. Eric wonders how he can do that without looking like a total tool— or maybe he does look like a tool, but that’s just his overall aesthetic, so it works?  
“Thanks, Randy.” 

Inside the lobby, Kent holds a fob up to a black panel on the wall to unlock a door and takes Eric down a hallway to the elevators. “He’s going to add you to the security list for people that the front desk is allowed to buzz into the building. That way, you can come and go as you please while you’re here. Just remember to carry your ID when you leave.” 

The elevator arrives, and Eric tries not to raise his eyebrows when Kent pushes the button for the top floor. Of course he would have a penthouse apartment. He doesn’t even live in New York for most of the year, and he still bought a penthouse apartment. Eric's stomach sinks and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t care to find out either. 

Up at the top, the front door has a number on it, even though it’s the only door in the hallway. There is another apartment on the other side of the elevator bank but no more. Kent unlocks the door, and leads Eric inside.

A small foyer with a coat closet opens up into a spacious living room with a wall of glass looking out over the city on the other side. A horseshoe of black sofas occupies one side of the space, and a glass dinning table takes the other. Halfway up to the lofty ceilings, the balcony of a second floor looks out into the open room. Through a doorway to the left, Eric spots another seating area, bright and cleanly decorated and lined with bookshelves, and through a doorway to the right— a kitchen. The shelves behind him are dotted with photos filled with an overwhelming amount of blond hair. 

In short, it is a really nice apartment. Eric says as much. 

“My mom did most of the decorating. It’s more her’s than mine, in a lot of ways.” Kent gestures to him to drop his bag by the coat closet and leads them to the kitchen. 

“What do you mean?” 

“She and my sister are the ones who make the most use of this space. I’m gone for most of the year; there’s no reason for me to have this kind of apartment if I never use it.” 

Eric felt bad for making the assumption he did in the elevator. Kent offered to host him when he was a tight spot, and that should be more than enough to make Eric reevaluate his opinion on the man, shouldn’t it? He kicks himself, mentally. 

That aside, though, Eric hadn’t known that Kent had a sister. “But it’s not your parent’s house? Like, they don’t stay here?” 

Kent starts puttering around the kitchen while he talks, pulling bags and boxes out of drawers and cabinets. “Well, it’s just my mom, but no. She was a single mother for so long, she has trouble letting other people do things for her, I think. She’s used to working herself into the ground, even if it isn’t good for her. Once I got my signing bonus, I asked her if I could buy her a new house— because what else was a seventeen year old going to do with that money— but she wouldn’t let me. She takes a lot of pride in being able to take care of herself and me and my sister all alone. She doesn’t realize that she doesn’t have to anymore.” A note of frustration colors his voice and he runs a hand through his hair, knocking off his baseball cap. He doesn’t pick it up. “Anyway, I didn’t do anything else with the bonus money, so I waited until I was old enough to reasonably buy my own place and bought this one. It’s not far from her work, so she stays here during the work week, usually.” 

Eric can’t breath. He really, really can’t. There was just so much. So. Much. in there that was wrong. That made him feel wrong. Because Eric is suddenly very aware that he is standing in a really really _really_ nice kitchen with this guy who he overheard saying _terrible_ things to one of Eric's _best_ friends, and this boy is telling him that he spent what was probably _millions_ of dollars on a _penthouse apartment_ in New York City to make his _mother’s life easier?_

Eric _can’t_ forget what he heard Kent say in the Haus in December, and a part of him can’t forgive Kent for it. But in the past few months, Kent has been nothing but pleasant in their Twitter chats. And in the past twenty four hours, Kent has shown Eric more kindness than he has gotten from everyone, all summer— combined. And now Bitty is just confused.

Kent adds an afterthought, “Plus, my little sister is closer to school when she’s here. Saves her a commute.”

Oh my goodness. That’s the last straw. Eric is going to break something.

He takes a deep breath. Tries to respond like a normal person, “How old is your sister?” 

Kent smiles— doesn’t seem to realize the extent of Eric's inner turmoil, “Twenty. She’s at Columbia; she’s the smart one in the family.” Kent opens this fridge then glances back at Eric. “I was going to make chicken fajitas for dinner. Does that work for you? Or, if you’re vegetarian, I think I have some veggies and beans?” 

“I’m from the south. I think I would be disowned if I were a vegetarian.” 

“Fair enough.” 

So Eric sits at the bar style counter while Kent Parson makes him fajitas on his stovetop. He offers to help, but Kent waves him off, and Eric has always been better at baking than cooking anyway.

Kent moves fluidly through his kitchen like this is something he does all the time. Eric comments,“I didn’t know you were such a cook.” 

Kent shrugs, “My life revolves around the condition of my body. Food determines at least, like, fifty percent of that. I can’t go out every day, so I got my mom to teach me how to cook.” He looks down, considering the stovetop before him, “Besides, It’s kind of relaxing. It’s an hour of my day where I’m not supposed to be doing anything but chopping vegetables and watching  
whatever’s on the grill and not burning anything.”

Eric can’t resist ribbing him, just a little. “How often do you fail on that last one?” 

Kent smiles with one half of his mouth. “Eh, from time to time. It happens.” 

While he watches, Eric tries to reconcile the last hours with the last time he met Kent. Eric realizes that, in his mind, he had been separating the Kent Parson that he met at the party from the Kent Parson that he chatted with over Twitter. Somehow, they had become two completely different people. So when he thought of the casual exchanges that came from behind his screen, he never had to make that fit into the image of a sad, drunk boy on the front porch of the Haus, looking far too old for his twenty five years.

In the kitchen, Eric sees the barrier he constructed between the two of them shatter. The shards of it are crushed under the foot of a man who hums as he waits for food to cook on the stove. _In the flesh_ Kent Parson is laughing agreeably like _Twitter_ Kent Parson and all the sudden it’s Just Kent Parson. 

At the Kegster, Eric was close to hating him. Maybe he did hate him, up until that conversation on the porch. Then he didn’t hate him, but he didn’t like him, either. He felt sorry for him, maybe? Then his opinion on Kent stagnated, even as Eric began to enjoy his presence through chat displays. Now, Bitty thinks Kent Parson might be someone he could be friends with. This Kent Parson is, at least. 

But even having consolidated his two Kent Parsons, Eric still doesn’t know how this is the same person he met in December. It’s like the puzzle has been put together and the pieces all fit, but Eric didn’t see it happen. He still doesn’t know _how_ they fit. His heart thuds loudly in his ears.

“You drinking?” Kent asked him. Eric blinked hard for a moment to bring his head back to the kitchen. The food off the stove had been plated, and Kent stands by the fridge with the necks of two beer bottle squeezed between the fingers of one hand.

“Oh. Sure.”

Kent places one of the plates and some silverware in front of Eric and the same in front of the seat next to him. The beer bottles clink gently as he sets those down, too. Kent pulls back the chair and plops down gracelessly. 

They eat their dinner, and it’s one of the most delicious things Eric has ever put in his mouth. Kent talks about his early adventures in cooking and his mom and his sister who will probably stop by after work and school tomorrow. They move to the couch, and Eric tells Kent about how he always wished he had a sibling even though his extended family was huge. 

Once they are both working on their second drink, and it’s gotten dark out, the conversation begins to slow. It’s comfortably quiet for a long while, and Eric feels his eyes start to droop a little. He leans his head on the cushion of the couch. Then Kent starts talking again and Eric is wide awake. 

“It’s okay if you don’t have an answer to this, but what are your plans?” 

Eric blinks, “I don’t want to impose—” Kent tries to wave him off with a hand but Eric ignores him, “—but I don’t know that I want to go to Providence. I can go back to campus for the rest of the summer since I don’t live in the dorms, and I think that is the most reasonable option. It’s just.” Eric stops with his mouth open. He looks down at his lap, then continues, “I just haven’t figured out what to tell the team yet.”

“You don’t think they’ll think anything of the truth do you?” Kent asks with his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I mean, it’s Samwell. They have a reputation as far as LGBT friendliness goes. One in four and what not.” 

“I’m surprised you know that,” Eric says, squinting at Kent. 

Kent blows out a breath, “Yeah, well, Zimms— ah, Jack, I suppose— goes there. So. You know. Did my research or whatever.” He scrubs a hand over his face, and all the sudden looks exhausted. It’s quiet again, but it is tense now, like the air knows that something has been left unsaid. Eric held his breath, though he couldn’t have said why. 

The quiet is like the heave of a storm, so its no surprise when the wave breaks, “Did you know that that was the first piece of news I heard from him after the draft?” Kent asks, voice weary, like maybe he didn’t want to be talking about this, but it was here anyway. “I kept up with his parents because it was the only way that I could find out anything about how he was doing— still talk to them, too. But he never took my calls. Then one day, out of no where, his number pops up on my caller ID. He told me that he was going to college, then hung up.” 

Kent was leaning forward on the couch with his elbows on his knees while he spoke. When he stops, he doesn’t look up from the space between his knees where his hands dangle limply. 

Eric was suddenly and keenly aware of the fact that Jack’s overdose had not occurred in a vacuum. Eric had thought about Jack, and he had thought about Jack’s family. He had not thought about Kent. It was almost too easy to dismiss him from the story. Kent went first in the draft, he’s captain of his team, he has the Calder and a few cups under his belt. He parties. He drinks. He has a penthouse apartment on the upper east side. 

And he lost his best friend that night.

Eric tucks his foot under Kent’s ankle, where his has one leg splayed out on the couch. 

Kent doesn’t acknowledge it, but he doesn’t move his foot either. He blows a noisy breath out his nose. “But really that’s neither here nor there. The point is that you could probably tell your friends at Samwell and get nothing but support. So what’s holding you back?”

Eric picks at his nails, digging underneath until it pinches. “I know; They’re great. I just…” 

“Hey, take your time. I don’t mind having you.” He paused, “And if you want to talk about what happened…”

Eric sinks back into the cushions, and barely thinks about it before responding, “I appreciate the offer, but…” He shrugs. A moment passes, and Eric starts to wonder, what if he did just tell Kent? What does it matter? Shouldn’t Kent be a low risk person? Eric knows him enough that he can talk about it without feeling weird. Still a little vulnerable, a little exposed, but not uncomfortable. 

So he sits forward and says, “Actually,” and he tells Kent everything that happened, from Mrs. Hatten at the car wash to Grandpa Bittle at the fourth of July. He talks about a thousand pinpricks, and Kent never came across as a particularly emotionally competent person, but he listens well. And when he’s finished, Eric feels like he’s dropped a weight he didn’t know he was carrying. He wonders if Kent knew. 

Eric didn’t realize that he wasn’t looking at Kent the whole time that he had been talking until he feels a warm hand on the ankle tucked next to Kent’s leg. Eric pulls his eyes away from the picture on the wall that he had been staring at and focused them on Kent’s face. Kent’s eyes catch his, and they don’t budge while Kent says, “I’m sorry.” 

And it doesn’t fix anything, and it doesn’t make it better, but Eric feels his heart settle anyway.

Kent shows Eric the guest room next to the study, and turns down the hall to head for his own room. Before he makes it more than a handful of steps, though, Eric darts out of his room and grabs the back of his shirt. Once Kent has turned back towards him, Eric leans up on his tiptoes and wraps his arm around Kent’s neck. It takes a moment, but Kent returns the hug eventually. 

“Thank you,” Eric whispers. For having him, for talking to him, for letting him talk. He means all of it, but he says none of it. He thinks Kent gets it, anyway.

Back in his room a heartbeat later, Eric feels like his skin in buzzing with energy and has a hard time forcing himself down into bed once he’s changed into his pajamas. Then the alcohol catches him, and he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow. 

 

The next morning, Eric wakes up before his alarm. The sun is coming in through the big windows on the eastern wall, and there is clinking coming from the kitchen. Eric pushes out of bed, and finds Kent standing by the counter in basketball shorts and a teeshirt, holding a cup of coffee.

“Did you go work out this morning?” Eric asks by way of greeting him.

Kent frowns at him, “I am an athlete. Even in the off-season.” 

“Yeah,” Eric groans, “but now you’re making me feel guilty.” He pokes himself in the belly. There wasn’t any extra fat there because Bitty had always been… bitty. But he hadn’t exactly kept up with his muscles, either. 

“Eh, you can get back into your routine once you get back to Samwell. Do you want a cup of coffee?” 

Eric makes a grabbing motion with his hands in response. Kent laughs and pulls down a mug. Once he had taken a sip, Eric says, “Speaking of Samwell, I think I’ll call Holster today and let him know that I’m coming. Is it okay with you if I tell him to expect me on Thursday?”

Kent shrugs differentially, “I told you once and I’ll tell you again. I really don’t mind having you. I have a PR meeting for off-season stuff on Tuesday, but otherwise I’m not doing anything, and besides, you can wander around New York without me. You’re not in the way or anything.” 

Eric stares at him, baffled that Kent doesn’t understand why Eric finds this a little unbelievable. It might be rude, but Eric has to ask, “I guess I just don’t understand why. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m so so thankful, but you don’t owe me anything. I don’t know why you’re being so nice about this; you didn’t have to do any of it.” 

Kent shrugs in a way that is clearly supposed to look casual but doesn’t. He looks away to pour himself another cup of coffee, fiddling with cream and sugar while he talks. “I know what it’s like to not feel safe because of your sexuality.” 

Oh. 

_Oh._

One might think that Eric would have more to say to that, given that it’s certainly something he relates to. But he really can’t think of a single thing. Maybe it’s the surprise. Maybe it’s just that some shitty feelings are universal enough that it feels redundant to voice any of it aloud. Eric coughs to clear his throat. “Well, thanks anyway.”

 

Kent takes Eric down to the bakery he pointed out the night before for breakfast. 

The entrance is on the basement floor of the building, and they have to walk down a flight of stairs cut into the sidewalk to get to the door. It’s the kind of place anyone would walk right by if they didn’t know what they were looking for. Inside, wooden tables surrounded by straw chairs fill out the space in the front of the store, and a counter and a glass display case filled with pastries line the back wall. 

Eric barely retrains himself from pressing his nose up against the glass. The pastries are so beautifully decorated, and they look fresh, and they are just all-around _gorgeous._

“Oh goodness, I don’t know how to decide.” 

Kent nudges into him with a shoulder, “Then let me do it for you.” He turns his attention to the barista, “Can I have two lavender-strawberry cupcakes, a small soy cappuccino,” he pauses and squints at Eric, then finishes, “and a small mocha, please.”

Before Eric can do anything about it, Kent has paid and gotten their cupcakes. They stand by the counter to get their drinks, and find a table by the wall. 

“Cupcakes— the breakfast of champions,” Kent says, lifting his to his mouth. 

Eric isn’t about to argue with that one. 

He bites into his cupcake and almost groans aloud. The cupcake itself isn’t super sweet, but the frosting on top adds just the right amount of sugar. A little pocket of honey inside the cupcake oozes after the first bite, sticking to the rest of the cupcake and the tips of Eric's fingers. He mumbles through his mouthful, “Oh my goodness.”

Kent smiles at Eric, and it is big and bright. “I know right,” and bites into his own. 

Once they finish, Kent proposes the Museum of Modern Art as a way to spend the morning, and just like that, they fall into a rhythm for the coming days; Breakfast, New York landmarks, back to the apartment while Kent does what professional athletes need to do in the off season— gross things like work out and talk to rookies— and then Kent makes dinner, and they sleep. 

Kent is a surprisingly good host; he takes Eric to the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, some historical sites that make Eric think of Jack. It means they spend a lot of time together, and eventually, it’s easy enough between them that they stop pulling away when they brush up next to each other on the sidewalk. Eric goes out on his own when Kent is busy, always double- and triple-checking for his ID before leaving the building. 

 

The other two thirds of the Parson crew show up in the afternoons. His mother is a blond lady not much shorter than Kent who wears intimidating pant suits, imposing black pumps that push her just a speck of an inch above her son’s head, and a black bluetooth in her ear. His sister Jenna comes in a few hours before his mother, asks Eric how his day was, then sits at the table and works. For hours. Without looking up. She is spending the summer working an internship at a neurology lab, and she is hoping to have a research proposal of her own finished within the week so that she can start working on her own projects with enough time to have a solid foundation before the school year starts again. 

Eric thinks its ridiculous how well put-together and well accomplished this family is. With a top PR representative, a professional athlete, and an accomplished scholar, it is clear that a diligent work ethic runs in the family. But it wasn’t what Eric had pictured when he thought of the Parson family, even after Kent told him that his mom worked endless hours and his sister went to Columbia. 

Still, despite their organized airs, when Eric asks Kent about his willingness to cut out a few days to show him around, Kent confesses, “I’ve lived in New York my whole life, so there has never been a reason to do all the tourist stuff. It’s stuff I’ve wanted to do forever, but my family never made the time for it. There was always other work to be done.” And now, knowing his family, Eric understands that, too. 

 

Jack calls on Wednesday night. 

Eric is alone in the apartment; Kent is out taking dinner to Jenna and her friends, all of whom are planning to pull an all nighter to finish their research proposal, and Mrs. Parson is gone on business. Eric is scrolling through his Twitter feed on the couch when his phone rings. Bitty sighs when he sees the caller ID— he’s not angry anymore, but he still didn’t really want to know how the first conversation with Jack would go. He swipes the screen to pick up. 

“Hello?” 

“Bittle.” 

“Hey, Jack.” 

The line crackles with the sounds of a breath being blown into the receiver, “Are you okay?” Jack’s voice is thin and quiet. 

 

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Lardo just called me and told me to check your Twitter—” 

Oh. Shit. He never did delete those tweets, did he?

“—what the hell happened?” 

“It’s fine, Jack,” Eric sighs, “I’m fine. Everything is fine.” 

“I am so sorry I didn’t pick up. Or that I did pick up, but I didn’t listen.” 

And Jack sounds so devastated that Eric feels guilty all the sudden. “Look, it’s no big deal. I’m in New York, and I’m staying with a friend until tomorrow. In the morning, I’m taking the train to Boston and spending the rest of the summer at the Haus with Holster. He’s working that horrible internship at the advancement office, remember? He could probably use the company. It is fine.” 

“I’m glad you have your friend. I’m sorry I messed up.” 

“Jack it’s fine. We’re good.” 

“Okay.” 

“Are you really?” 

“…ah. Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine if you’re fine.” 

That doesn’t sound so fine, but Eric hesitates to push him. He feels like they are on some precarious ledge. So, he just says “Good.” 

“Good.” A pause. “Listen, I was thinking about coming down to Samwell at the beginning of the year to say hello to everyone. I don’t know how often I’ll be able to come down once the season starts. We should get coffee at Annie’s.” 

It sounds like a consolation. It is coming late, but Eric appreciates the effort, so he accepts it. “I’d expect nothing less, Mr. Zimmermann. Business as usual.” 

“Yeah, as usual.” 

The apartment’s front door opened. “I’m looking forward to it, Jack. But I have to go, my friend just walked in. Can we talk later?”

"Yeah, no problem. I’ll talk to you soon, Bittle.” 

“‘My friend just walked in?’” Kent mimics from the threshold between the kitchen and the living room once Eric has hung up. “You haven’t told him that you’re with me, have you?” 

He says it mildly, but it is mild in a way that makes it sound like a mockery and an insult all in one. Eric can practically feel his hackles rise. “Are you trying to talk to me about communication skills? You haven’t called to apologize yet, have you? Even though you said you would? Like, seven weeks ago?” 

And just like that, Kent deflates. After a long moment, he sighs and shrugs, “Touché.” He continues like nothing happened. “Anyway, I thought that we would go out to this restaurant for dinner, if you’re up for it. It’s one of my favorites.” 

Eric is thrown for a moment. For the first time since he has been in New York, he saw a glimpse of the boy that he met in December. And then it was gone. Just like that. He stares at Kent, trying to glean something from his face but it’s like trying to read a picture. 

“Okay.” 

 

After watching Kent wave a lackadaisical hand at a million Michelin starred restaurants all week and listening to his oddly specific commentary on each one, Eric wasn’t sure what to expect from his “favorite.” He might have thought it would be the kind of restaurant that would require the blood of a virgin to get into. Or, if he were thinking outside the box, he might have thought it would be some dive that harkened back to his “NHL frat boy” reputation. Either way he never would have thought of this. 

It’s a small diner boasts their 24 hour availability in the front window. The floor is checkered with black and white tiles and the booths are covered in red vinyl. There is a steel bar counter off to one side, and the staff knows Kent by name. 

It reminds Eric of home. And for the first time in a long time, Eric can say that and mean it in a good way.

It’s nearly empty— too late to be a normal dinner hour, too middle-of-the-week for the late night drunk crowd. Kent and Eric take a booth in the corner, and the restaurant feels cavernous around them. The waitress sets menus down before them, but Kent doesn’t bother to flip his open. Instead, he leans over the table to look over the top of Eric's. 

“All the food here is good, but their omelets are to die for. That’s not what really matters though.” 

Eric looks up and finds himself looking into Kent’s face from a very close distance. Close enough that it’s impossible to look at multiple parts of his face at the same time. Eric's eyes flicker between his eyes and his nose and his lip. Eric takes the bait, “What it the part that really matters?” 

“The strawberry milkshake that you get at the end.” 

“That good of a milkshake?” 

“I have been coming to this diner since I was below the age of memory. I have finished every single meal here with a strawberry milkshake. For twenty. Five. Years.” Kent is still leaning half the way over the table, and there is a light in his eyes, so different from the harsh attitude or the blank slate Eric faced not an hour before. Eric can tell that this is a place from his childhood, now that Kent had said it. Kent gets younger before his eyes. 

Eric wonders what it means that Kent is willing to share this with him— that Kent had been willing to share so much with him since they met. “Wow. I had no idea you had such a sweet tooth. And I thought you were twenty four?” 

“I just turned twenty five.” 

“When was your birthday?” 

“The fourth.” 

Of course it was the Fourth of July. Not only is it 110% fitting, given Kent’s ‘All American Boy’ vibe, but it is just like Eric's life to make sure that if he was going to need help from someone, he is going to need it at a time when it is going to ruin their birthday. He shoves that down. “Did you do anything to celebrate?” 

Kent nods firmly, “Absolutely. I sat on my couch and scrolled through Twitter and didn’t pick up any phone calls.” 

Eric raises an eyebrow, “Seriously?” 

“Hey, it’s something I don’t get to do often.” 

The waitress comes by and takes Eric's order. To Kent, she merely asks, “The usual?” 

Kent nods his head, and Eric waits until she walks a few paces away from the edge of their table before continuing, “Sorry for interrupting your festivities.” 

Kent squints at him in a way that makes Eric feel like he just said something wrong. When Eric doesn’t retract his statement— he honestly has no idea which part is problematic; it seems a fairly innocuous statement to him— Kent places a hand over the one Eric has resting on the table. “Eric. Maybe I haven’t been very clear about this. You are not an inconvenience. I actually enjoy having you here.” 

Kent’s face is so earnest and his hand is warm where is lies over Eric's. A thought occurs to Eric, and he’s a little shocked because it honestly hadn’t occurred to him for the whole time he has been in New York. Now that he’s thought of it, though, he can’t let go. 

He holds on to it, letting it whisper quietly in his ear.

 

Hours later, Eric and Kent are back in the apartment, and Kent is mixing drinks while Eric splays out on the couch. The milkshake is sitting heavy in his stomach, and he is full enough that he wouldn’t mind not moving for a long while. 

“How did your call with Jack go?” Kent calls from the kitchen. 

Eric tenses up, unsure how to answer. Part of that depends on why Kent is asking. “It was good,” is what he settles on. “He feels bad about missing my calls and I feel bad for making him  
feel bad, so. I guess it was a little awkward.” 

Kent’s response is relaxed, “Trying to protect him from a little guilt?” 

Eric relaxes in response, “I figured that you would be one person that I wouldn’t have to explain it to.” And he’s affable, too. It’s not an accusation, merely a call for understanding. 

His call is answered, “Yeah, no, you’re right. I get it.” 

Eric still feels the need to explain himself. Or maybe not explain, just… vent? To someone who gets it? “It’s the same reason that I’m ‘with a friend’ instead of ‘with Kent Parson.’ He’s just— It’s just that I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want him to be angry with me. I don’t want…” He gets that far and can’t say it. It’s not until it’s out of his mouth that he realizes what he implied, either— that Kent is something Jack would be mad about, and Eric feels like a moron because no one wants to hear that.

Kent doesn’t acknowledge it, though Eric has no doubt that he caught it. Instead, he grabs the drinks off the counter and joins Eric on the sofa, sitting close enough to press their knees together, and he finishes Eric thought better than Eric would have been able to, “You don’t want to lose him. And you worry that it is going to be the smallest thing that tips the balance one day.” 

“Yeah.” 

Kent leans back into the sofa cushions, his head turned towards Eric. He looks wistful and sad and all the sudden Eric understands how the pieces fit together— the pieces that make up the Kent that he met at Epikegster and the Kent who has been his host and the Kent who sent him links to cat videos on Twitter and the Kent who has been his tour guide for the past three days. 

Kent gets mean when he’s angry and then he gets sad, and it breaks Eric's heart to realize that this is the way he learned to defend himself. Eric realizes, too, in that same moment, that usually Kent is alone for the sad part. 

Kent sighs,“I get that. I’ve already lost him and I’m still afraid of it. I’m afraid that I’m never going to get him back.” 

Eric rests his elbow atop the back of the sofa and leans towards him, “You’re still in love with him.”

“How could I not be.” 

Eric shrugs, “Far be it from me to argue with that.” 

Kent pushes off the couch and leans into Eric's space, “I figured you’d be the one person that I wouldn’t have to explain it to.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You love him, too.” 

Eric had never admitted it to a real person before, only to his camera lens and the people who followed him on youtube, so the word catches in this throat a little when he pushes it out, “Yeah.” 

“Thought so.” 

Eric hums and then it is quiet for a long time. From where they sit on the couch, Eric has a clear view of the wall of pictures lining the shelves on the far side of the room. He remembers Kent telling him that his mother was a single mother on his first day here, and assumed that his father left. But now, Eric wonders. As his eyes dance between the pictures, he spies several of an older, dark haired man, and he can’t help but wonder. 

“Kent?” 

His eyes have drifted closed, and he has curled up against the back of the couch like he might be ready to fall asleep, but he hums in acknowledgement. 

“Will you tell me about your dad?” 

His eyes flicker open to look at Eric. He traces his line of sight to the pictures and lets out a soft sound of understanding. “He was a doctor— a pediatrician. Loved kids, loved taking care of kids. Relatively low-energy guy, which made me sad when I was a kid and wanted to play sports with him when he got home from work. He was much more content to sit on the couch and read. He’d read out loud to Jenna and I every night, though. That was his way of making sure he spent time with us every day. He had a stroke when I was eight. He passed away a week and a half later.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, I mean, it sucks. But also, I think he lived well, and that’s all you can really ask for. He and my mom had a great marriage, he loved us, he loved his job, and while I wish he— I wish we all— could have enjoyed it longer, I’m happy that he had what he had. And I’m happy that I had what I had.” Kent pointed to the top shelf. “See that picture there?” 

Eric tried to line up his sight with Kent’s finger. “The one in the snow?” 

“Yeah, I don’t know if you can see it from here, but that was me out on a pond that had iced over. He took me skating at my grandmother’s house upstate and taught me how to play shinny. He didn’t even like hockey that much, but he did it growing up, so he played with me. He tried to get my mom to let him take Jenna on the ice too, but she wasn’t even three yet, so mom shut him down on that one. We spent hours out there, then he brought me in and made me this horribly sweet hot chocolate with peppermint. I drank the whole thing and then I thought I was going to throw up. 

“I don’t have anything super deep or anything— it’s not like I feel connected to my dad every time I’m on the ice, but I do remember that he was the one who introduced me to the game. And I remember that he took time off work— work he really enjoyed, mind you— to be with us for that vacation, and I remember that he didn’t take a single call from work when he was with us.” Kent sighs. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that he couldn’t be here for everything, but when he was here, he made it count. That’s all I care about.”

“That’s really sweet,” Eric coos. “We used to go up to my grandmother’s house for breaks, too. Except that there was never any snow, and the only ice was in our tea.” Eric laughs and lays his accent on thick, “And we called her moo-maw because were a clan of southern hicks.” 

Kent barks a short laugh, “You guys don’t actually sound like that.” 

Eric patted his shoulder condescendingly, and he draws out his vowels as long as he can, “Aw shucks. Bless your sweet, little, god-fearing heart. And your mama’s heart, too.” 

Kent laughs again, clapping his hands together once in unrestrained delight, then gets super serious, leans in and whispers, “Park,” but he says it like “Pahk,” in a crude imitation of the typical New York accent. 

Eric snorts a laugh himself, “God, you’re such a dork.” 

And then they are both laughing hard enough that their abs start to hurt and imitating every accent they’ve ever heard and butchering each one as aggressively as possible. And then an hour has slipped though their fingers, and they are sitting on the couch with their whole bodies pressed up against each other, and Eric's legs are in Kent’s lap, and Eric has to wonder at the fact that this happens on the one night that they are completely sober.

Finally the laughter quiets down and the apartment seems to settle back onto its heels.

They are so much in each other’s space, and there is this thing between them that has been growing since Eric arrived on Sunday or maybe since they started sending each other messages that started with _I saw this and it made me think of you_ or maybe since the night they spent an hour in silence with the bass from the speakers vibrating the ground beneath their feet. 

They are inches away from each other’s faces. Eric sees Kent eyes glance down, and he makes a split second decision and hopes he doesn’t regret it later. He looks up into Kent’s face, and that catches Kent’s attention enough that Kent turns his face down. Eric can feel Kent’s breath on his face. Thinking of an old song he used to love, Eric musters a split second of irreverent bravery and asks, “Are you gonna kiss me or not.” 

He’s pretty sure Kent doesn’t get the reference, and then Kent’s lips are soft against Eric’s, and he doesn’t care because Kent is kissing him. It’s soft and gentle and cautious, light brushes of lips easing into soft pecks. 

Until it’s not. Kent brings a hand up to Eric’s face to hold him still while he tips his head and presses a little closer. Eric pushes back with his whole body. Then it’s hot and breathtaking and not cautious at all. It’s teeth and tongue and reckless. Kent’s other hand goes to Eric’s neck, his thumb brushing at the sensitive patch of skin between the underside of his ear and the underside of his jaw. They stay like that for a long moment, then Kent’s teeth catch Eric’s lower lip between them, scraping as he pulls away. 

Kent is staring at Eric with his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown. “Oh,” he breaths. 

“Yeah.” 

They are still close enough that Eric can feel Kent’s heaving breaths. His eyes are too close to bring into focus, and Eric’s fingers are still threaded through his hair, though he doesn’t remember putting them there. 

Kent asked, “Are we really doing this?” 

“I’m in if you are.”

Kent leans forward to brush their lips together again in a teasing mockery of another kiss, “Oh, I am definitely in.” 

Eric brings both hands up to Kent’s face, holding him there for a moment. He squints at him as his brain flicks back through everything he has ever heard about Kent Parson. Then, all at once and for the first time since they met, Eric is able to close down that part of his brain once and for all. It doesn’t matter what everyone else has said. All that matters is him.

He uses the hands on Kent’s face to pull him the rest of the way in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets, secrets are no fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it took a month, but... Ta da *Jazz hands* 
> 
> I'm not so good at writing on a schedule, as it turns out. But in my defense, I was traveling! I'm not giving up on trying for that schedule, though-- I will try to have the next one out faster than this one. 
> 
> I didn't get a chance to respond to all of your lovely comments from last chapter because I'm a little lame, but thank you all for your kind words, and I really, really appreciate that you took the time to share them with me. They are amazing and you are amazing and-- just, thank you!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this installment :)

07/09/2015 11:12am  
Kent: Have a safe ride back— let me know when you get in  
Eric: Yes, mom  
Kent: you dick 

07/15/2015 5:33pm  
Eric: So you know how I told you that I got this job at a bakery?  
Kent: Yeah?  
Eric: It’s the worst. I hate it.  
Kent: ????  
Kent: Wasn’t today your first day?  
Eric: Yeah. And it sucked.  
Ken: Give it a chance, man.  
Eric: Oh, I will. But it’s gonna suck 

08/02/2016 5:31pm  
Eric: IM DONE  
Kent: With the job?   
Eric: YES  
Kent: Thank god. If I had to listen to you complain about your boss one more time…  
Eric: -.-

 

The summer slips through Eric’s fingers. The day he left Kent’s apartment, he made it to the Haus in the late afternoon. Holster greeted him at the door, dressed in slacks and a button down after a day working his internship. It seems like that was no more than a week ago, but all of the sudden, the team has returned to the Haus and the new frogs are coming to campus. Practices start in a few days, and Eric is reeling. 

Sitting in Jack’s-turned-Chowder’s room, watching him unpack— he offered to help, but Chowder insisted upon doing it himself— Eric is suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that Jack won’t be here this year. He’s known it, cognitively, for months, but he doesn’t think he really _knew_ it until right now. Quickly and viciously, Eric’s chest begins to ache. He already misses having Jack so close— hearing him yell at Eric to go to sleep from across the hall, walking to Faber for morning practice together, shouting homework questions to him for their shared class. It was good, and Eric knows that he and Chowder will find their own rhythm just fine, but he also knows that it’s not going to be the same. And that hurts a little bit.

He sucks in a deep breath, filling his lungs up until it pinches, then releases it. He tucks the feeling away and goes back to listening to Chowder talk about his summer while he unpacks (Eric offered to help because that’s how he was raised, but Chowder insisted on organizing everything himself. He said that it was the only way to ensure that he knew where everything was. Eric drops it at that). Eric listens to the sound of Chowder’s voice and the shuffle of unpacking and tries not to think too hard about writing over the past. 

“How was your summer,” Chowder asks as he finishes putting away the last of his things. 

Eric has been asked this question a hundred times since the team has started to migrate back to Samwell for the year, and he gives Chowder the same answer that he has given everyone else— the only answer that feels honest without getting into all the details. Eric grins and shrugs, “It was the weirdest summer of my life.” 

He pushes up out the desk chair and excuses himself before Chowder has the chance to ask any questions. Besides, he has plans in a couple minutes. 

 

Across the hall, in his room, Eric sits on the bed and flips open his laptop. He opens Skype and waits. At exactly 7:30pm, his laptop sings out a tone and a video request pops up on his screen. It takes a moment for the picture to resolve, but then Eric is staring at a relatively clear image of Jack Zimmermann. 

“Hey, Bittle.” Jack’s voice is deep and smooth, running over the sharp feeling that had rooted itself in Eric’s chest earlier and sanding down its rough edges.

“Hey, Jack.” 

“How was your day?” 

Eric pulls his laptop onto his lap and leans back into the pillows behind him. He tells Jack about watching Chowder unpack and how that means the Haus is now full. He talks about some of the new frogs, and he tells Jack about his new class schedule. The more he talks, the more tension Eric feels pull out of his shoulders. He sinks into the pillows behind him, and pulls the laptop onto his knees. 

“How do you feel about classes starting?” Jack asks him when he finally takes a moment to breath. 

Eric laughs a laugh that sound more tired than amused, “I think it’s the first time in my life that I can honestly say that I am excited to get back to school.” 

A frown creases Jacks eyebrow, “Why do you say that?” 

“It’s just been a weird summer, you know? I guess I feel… unbalanced? It was a weird few weeks in Georgia, and then the whole Fourth of July thing happened, then I was in New York with this friend and that was weird.” Eric saw Jack’s brow crease deepen and rushed to continue, “Then I was back here, and then I was working at the bakery, and then I was ready to murder my boss, and then she asked me to stay on during the school year and during hockey season and it took all I had not to just walk out…” Eric pauses to breathe. He collects himself and forces the words to come out slower. “Anyway, it was a lot of stuff I didn’t expect— the leaving home and coming to Samwell and getting a job that wasn’t looking after kids for eight hours a day. There was a lot of unexpected variables, and I am ready to settle back into a well-worn routine. One that I know I like and know that I can deal with.” 

Jack nods sympathetically, “I think that’s totally fair. I’m really sorry you didn’t like the baking gig, though. I really thought that would be good for you.” 

“Yeah, you and me both.” Eric picked at his thumbnail, “I really can’t tell if it was the job or the people, though. Maybe a little bit of both? Like, when I got the job, I was so happy to make money from doing something that I love doing, but then I didn’t really have the freedom that I usually have with it? And it became more work than fun. I don’t want to start resenting baking; i wouldn’t know what to do with myself. But then I am wondering what I will like doing as a _job_ if I don’t even like baking! And then I had my boss.” 

“Yeah she sounds like she was kind of terrible.” 

“She was just mean. Like, I’ve never met anyone who was so needlessly nasty before.” 

“So you said. Let it not go unsaid that I am endlessly grateful not to have anyone like that on the Falconers. Having good people around makes work so much easier.” 

“Oh my gosh, yes!” Eric exclaims, nearly knocking his computer of his lap when he throws his hands up, “I’m so sorry that I’ve been yammering on for so long! Tell me about the Falconers! Is everything going well? It is everything you hoped it would be? Are you excited for the start of the season?”

Jack brushes off Eric’s apology, insisting that he really doesn’t mind listening, then begins to talk about settling into Providence. Eric loves to see the way that Jack lights up when he talks about hockey, and he warms when he hears that Jack is learning to be comfortable around his team. Eric would never tell him, but he worried about Jack for a little while. But hearing about how he liked his team and he was starting to get to know the city set his heart at ease a little bit. 

“Anyway,” Jack concludes, “It’s all been going really well, thank goodness.”

“I’m really glad to hear that, Jack.” There is a short, comfortable lull in the conversation, then Eric asks, “So, when are you coming to visit?” 

Jack shrugs, “I was thinking the second to last weekend in September? It’s the last weekend before my first game of the season, and then it will be a little harder to find time to come down. So, you know. Minimizes the amount of time between visits.” 

The second to last weekend of _September?_ “Jack! That’s six weeks from now! You’re only forty minutes away, you know. You can come visit more than once in a semester. It won’t kill you.” Eric knows he sounds petulant, but _the second to last weekend of September?_

Jack sighs and scrubs a hand over his face for a moment before meeting Eric’s eyes again through the video camera. “Look, Bittle. I miss you guys, I really do. But I don’t want to get in the way of the team’s preparation for the season. I don’t want the frogs to feel like they don’t fit because this guy who graduated keeps showing up, and they don’t get any time to bond with their seniors. That kind of stuff matters early on.” 

Leave it to Jack to feel like he’d be getting in the way if he visited. Eric doesn’t know if he is just being self-centered in thinking like this, but it seems like Jack has been tip-toeing around him since July, like he doesn’t know if he’s wanted or not. Which is ridiculous because Eric may have been upset, but Jack is still one of his best friends, and Eric still… cares about him more than anything. 

(Maybe a little too much.) 

Now, Eric can’t help but wonder if Jack’s insistence on waiting to visit is because of him. Eric wants to push, wants to protest, but he sees Jack set his jaw and knows that Jack is going to stand by his decision. Fine then. “I’ll see you in September, I guess.” 

Eric must have been more obvious with his sulking than he thought he was because Jack laughs, “Come on, Bittle. You’ll see me on Skype tomorrow to tell me all about the horrible things the frogs are doing.” 

Eric tries to laugh it off the same way, but his heart still sits heavy in his chest when clicks out of the call a few minutes later. Jack is right, Eric probably will call him tomorrow (He’s also probably right about the frogs being up to no good). He and Jack had found their rhythm again once Eric got back to the Haus after the weekend in New York. It took a few days for the awkwardness to subside— Jack clearly felt like he owed Eric something, and that got in the way of their ability to feel on even footing—but Eric is just grateful that they got there. 

Maybe that’s why he still hasn’t mentioned Kent to Jack. He doesn’t want to put them back in a place where they get on Skype and can only say short stilted phrases to each other. It will just make things uncomfortable.

 

08/23/2016 4:27pm  
Eric: I need your advice  
Kent: Most people don’t trust me with that kind of stuff  
Eric: I haven’t even told you what kind of stuff it is yet! Also, most people haven’t seen how ridiculously fond of your mom you are.  
Eric: It’s my mom’s birthday in a week and I have no idea what to get her.  
Eric: please keep in mind that a penthouse apartment is not within my price range.  
Kent: You’re hilarious.  
Kent: My mom is pretty great though  
Kent: But my mom also hates getting gifts, so I have to be careful about it when I want to buy her something. And it is usually something pretty utilitarian because I need an excuse to give it to her. I got Jenna this bracelet a few years ago, though, and she really likes it. You can personalize it, so you can decide what you think your mom would like.  
Kent: I’ll send you a link, hang on. 

 

As it turns out, when it finally does come out, it’s a lot worse than just uncomfortable. But it takes a little while to get there.

Jack arrives at Samwell late in the evening on the Thursday before the second to last weekend of September. The moment he walks in the door, Ransom and Holster whoop and spring of the couch, not even bothering to pause their run of MarioCart. One of Whiskey’s eyebrows nearly hits his hairline, and Eric doesn’t blame him; it’s a rare sight to see the two of them abandon their game so readily. 

Eric doesn’t stay to watch Whiskey, though. He’s much more inclined to follow Ransom and Holster’s example and mob Jack. 

Still standing in the threshold of the Haus, Jack’s eyes find Eric as soon as he comes into view. Ransom and Holster take a step back, shouting up the stairs for Lardo to come down, and Eric slides in to squeeze Jack in a hug.

“It’s good to see you in three dimensions, Bittle.” 

“And high resolution,” Eric laughs. 

After months without seeing him in person, Eric feels like he should feel different, but he finds that hugging Jack feels just the way it always has; comfortable and warm and never long enough.

He has to pull away when Lardo comes down the stairs and demands her own hug, and all the upperclassmen gather around the kitchen table to grill Jack about his time in Providence. Chowder, Dex, and Nursey had gone out for coffee a little while ago. They should be back pretty soon, Eric thinks, but they will be sad to have missed Jack’s arrival, even if he is going to be here for a few days. Whiskey hangs around the edges and listens, but rarely offers any input; Eric can’t decide if it is a shy silence or a condescending silence.

While the team catches up, Eric pulls out forks and what’s left of a blueberry pie he’d made earlier in the day, and they collectively pick it apart directly from the pan. Holster pulls out the beer about an hour later. Eric and Ransom intend to go easy on the alcohol because they both have classes tomorrow, and Jack doesn’t have much because he’s Jack, but Holster and Lardo go for broke because they have no reason not to. Two bottles and ten topic changes later, Eric is beginning to feel the alcohol a little. His head is spinning pleasantly, and he’s a little looser around the shoulders. Across the table, Jack looks similarly relaxed, though he only finished half of the bottle he’s had open since the start. 

Eric feels his chest constrict. In the late evening light, the kitchen has gotten dim around them. Only the soft orange light seeping through the window over the sink keeps the space illuminated, and even that will be gone in only a few more minutes. Jack has one arm slung over the back of his chair, and his lips curve into a pleased grin while he tells a story about today’s practice. He looks comfortable, and he looks happy, and Eric has never thought he looked more beautiful. 

And because he’s a little tipsy— not drunk, he’s _not,_ he has _class_ tomorrow— Eric’s eyes start to water a little bit. Somehow, in the months since they’ve seen each other in person, Eric feels like he forgot what it felt like to have Jack in the room with him.

Eric looks up, trying to keep the tears from rolling down his face because that is not something he wants to explain to nosey teammates. He wishes the light was on; it’s always easier to keep from crying when there is a light to look into. 

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. So much for avoiding the nosey teammates. 

“You good, Bitty?” Holster asks, and of course it was Holster that notices because he is the one sitting all the way at the other end of the table, and when he asks, it gets everyone’s attention. 

“Yeah,” Eric responds, and he resents the way it word warbles just a little bit as it comes out. 

Now everyone’s paying attention to him, and because he knows that they won’t leave it alone and because he’s a little bit drunk— no, _tipsy_ — Eric says, “I just really, really like boys.”

It gets a laugh out of the whole team, and Lardo pats his back, murmuring, “We know, Bits. We know.” 

And it should be funny, but Eric doesn’t feel like laughing. When Jack wasn’t here, it was easy to forget how hard Eric has fallen for him. Now, with Jack here in the same space, Eric wonders how he ever forgot what this feels like. His chest is tight and his throat aches and he _wants._ He wants to see Jack look like that all the time. He wants to be closer. He wants to run. 

He wants to shut off the part of his brain that supplies an image Kent Parson chewing on the straw of a strawberry milkshake when he thinks about boys he really, really likes. 

Eric lets his head thunk down on to the table in front of him, “They’re more trouble than they are worth.” 

“Hold up,” Lardo says, “That sounds way too real.” And Eric should have expected her to see right through him, but it still comes as a surprise. “Are you seeing someone?” 

“No,” Eric says. It’s not a lie, but it’s also not totally honest, so he adds. “I hooked up with someone over the summer.” 

There is the customary round of whoops and whistles from Ransom and Holster and even Nursery, who had come in with Dex and Chowder a little while back. Once it quiets down, Lardo asks, “And you’re upset about this because?” 

“Because I’m an asshole.” 

And that gets Eric more serious and focused attention, “I never would have thought that anyone would call Eric Bittle an asshole,” Ransom comments mildly, “Not even himself.” 

Eric didn’t sit down tonight expecting to talk about his feelings, but now that he’s started, it feels good enough that he doesn’t really want to stop. He doesn’t lift his head off the table, but he says,“I hooked up with this guy, and he’s cute and he’s always been nothing but kind to me. But he has a reputation of being a little bit of an asshole, but I don’t know how much of that is a real reflection of his personality, you know? 

“But the real problem is that he used to be best friends with another really good friend of mine, and they had some sort of falling out that they never resolved.” Eric sees his side of the table wince out of the corner of his eye. “I know right? It gets worse. So we hooked up, and it was great, but then I was coming back to school and he was staying, and also we’re both a little bit hooked on the friend that he had this falling out with, so we decided that we couldn’t make whatever might have been between us into anything more. At least not before we cleared the air between all three of us. Also, it would be this weird long distance relationship, and also I haven’t really known him for that long. So really pursuing this relationship further makes no sense.”

It feels good to say it all out loud. When Eric had woken up on Kent’s couch on Thursday morning, they hadn’t had much time to talk it out. Eric had a train to catch, and Kent had a meeting besides. Kent walked him to the subway station across central park the same way that they had come a few days earlier, and they talked it out while they walked; they would still be friends, but it didn’t make sense to try to turn this into anything else. Neither of them were really in the position to do so. 

Also Jack.

“Okay,” says Dex, “so don’t. Pursue the relationship further, I mean. It seems like your problem is solved already.” 

Chowder wrinkles his nose, “Solved, except that you should probably tell the other friend. Just out of respect to them, if you are close the way you said you were. But, yeah, don’t pursue.”

“But I want to!” Eric exclaims a little desperately, finally picking his head up off the table and gesturing wildly with his hands. Then again, a little quieter, “I want to. I like this guy, and I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve been hung up on this other friend for so long, and I know that it isn’t going anywhere, and it feels good to have the possibility of actually having someone like me back for once!” 

“Oh, Bits.” Lardo rubs his back, and Eric lets his head thunk back onto the table.

“Wait, was this while you were in New York?” asks Jack. 

Eric nods with his forehead still pressed to the table top. His skin sticks at the point of contact, so his skin pulls in funny ways. Eric thinks it’s a pretty good manifestation of how he feels on the inside, too. 

“It’s all very dramatic,” says Nursey.

Eric shrugs with one shoulder. “The problem is now, I like him and I like this other guy and they don’t like each other. Or, rather, he likes him, but he doesn’t like him. Maybe. Or maybe he does like him but he isn’t talking to him, so no one knows.” 

It’s quiet for a second. Then Chowder whispers, “Wait. What?” 

“Friend A likes Friend B but Friend B doesn’t like Friend A,” Lardo translates. “Or maybe B does like A but they aren’t talking to each other.” 

Eric pats her leg in thanks. He peels his head up off the table again, and finds himself looking directly at Jack. His face has gone blank, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with the information that he has been given. It feels a little weird to talk about him in front of him while he doesn’t know that he is the one being talked about. Eric probably shouldn’t be doing this, but he’s— _Okay,_ he’s a little more than tipsy.

“So what?” Dex asks, “You don’t know how to choose?” 

“Nah— I mean, yeah because they are both amazing, but nah because I don’t think I can have either. One of them lives in New York and has a life of his own and the other is straight.” 

“Ouch.” 

“Yeah. So basically it just sucks all around. Why can I crush on attainable people?” Eric whines. The whole table nods in understanding and solidarity, even Jack.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAcesOfficial  
Season kicks off tomorrow! We’ve got some of the players here today to answer your questions? #AsktheAces

**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease  
@90KParse How do you trick the PR peeps into thinking its a good idea to give you free reign on the internet? #AsktheAces

**Kent Parson favorited** your tweet.

**Kent Parson** @90KParse  
Thanks to all the fans who sent in questions today! Rossi, Siggs, and I had fun, and we hope you did too. Except you @omgcheckplease #AsktheAces

**Kent Parson** @90KParse  
Also, season starts Saturday night! Get pumped cause we’re takin it to The Big City #NYC **@NYIslanders**

 

The next night, there is a Kegster at the Haus. In honor of the return of Captain Jack, Ransom and Holster claimed, but Eric thinks they were just itching to throw a party. Especially given that Jack doesn’t actually like Kegsters all that much. 

The Haus is crowded, and the music is playing loudly enough to vibrate through the floor of Eric’s room. Eric feels the buzz dance all across his skin, lying on his belly in front of the air mattress that Jack slept on last night. Jack originally intended to sleep on the couch, but friends don’t let friends acquire bacterial diseases, so Eric called in a favor to borrow an air mattress from Whiskey who borrowed it from one of the Lax bros that he hangs out with. Jack protested it’s origins, but it is still better than the couch. 

Jack settles down next to him, leaning his back up against the side of the air mattress. Eric turns his head to the side to look up at him. They had both retreated from the Kegster a little while ago, despite the fact that the party was still going strong. Instead, they had spent the last hour watching stupid videos on youtube. Eric showed Jack the History of Japan video that was going viral, and then they watched a bunch of the buzzfeed videos about foreign foods. Because why not.

But then Jack had gotten up and put his computer away, and now he was back and looking at Eric. He wanted to say something, Eric could tell. While he figures out the words that he wanted to use, Eric stays quiet. Patient. 

“Can I tell you something?” Jack starts, hesitantly. 

“Of course you can.” 

“I’m, um…” Jack licks his lips. “I’m not… good at this.” 

But Eric is— specifically, he is good at getting words out of Jack. This is something he can do. He props himself up on his elbows, and looks up at Jack. “No worries. Something happened?” 

Jack nods, squinting his eyes a little bit and rubbing a hand across his mouth, “I got a phone call a few days ago, while I was driving back from practice.” He pauses, visibly pushing himself to complete the thought, “from Kent Parson.” 

Eric’s heart stops. He holds his voice level as best as he can. “Really? What did he say?” 

“He called… to apologize?” Jack sounds genuinely confused. Eric nods, silently urging Jack to go on. “It’s weird because I don’t think I would have answered if I hadn’t been driving. But I was, so I didn’t look at the caller ID, and we started talking, and then we were fighting, and then he just cut himself off, like ‘No, wait, this isn’t what this was supposed to be about.’ He told me that he was going to talk and that I wasn’t allowed to until he was done.” 

Jack stops there. Eric gives him a moment, then asks, “What’d he say?” 

“He made this really pretty apology— I’m fairly certain that he had it written down, or he rehearsed it, or something— and now we are going to go out to coffee when the Aces come to Providence at the end of October.” 

Eric hummed, “Wow.” Eric can’t believe Kent actually did it. A small part of him wonders how much he had to do with it. “How do you feel about that?” 

Jack takes a long time to answer, and when he does, it’s slow and cautious. “I’m trying not to be too excited, you know?” Jack shrugs and smiles a little nervously. It’s small and reserved the way a lot of his smiles are, but it is also hopeful and brighter than Eric ever could have imagined. Even though Jack was still quiet and calm, Eric could see the understated excitement humming under his skin, “But maybe it’ll work out, and that would be kind of amazing.” 

“You think you’ll be able to work it out?” Eric asks, careful not to sound judgmental. 

I mean, he’s a different person that he was when we were friends before; he’s changed as much as I have. But until today I thought maybe we had grown differently, so we didn’t fit together anymore. Now I wonder if it’s possible that we’ll fit better now than we did before. I don’t to get my hopes up too much in case it still doesn’t happen, but,” he shrugs, “it’s hard not to imagine the possibility.” 

“Have you talked to him since?” 

“He’s texted a couple of times— I think both of us are trying a little too hard to make it normal, but it’s been good.”

Eric lets that settle in the air around them, then asks, “Jack?” 

Jack hums. 

“Don’t get mad at me for asking—“ 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Are you… going to be okay if it doesn’t work out?” 

Jack looks down into Eric’s face, considering, and Eric appreciates that he takes his time to answer. 

“You know,” Jack’s voice is soft with amazement, and it settles something in the back of Eric’s mind, “I think I will be.”

Eric smiles up at him, “Then I’m really happy for you Jack.” Eric tries to convince himself of it, even as his stomach twists. Eric can’t help but wonder if he’ll still fit in the space that he’s carved out between them. But maybe that doesn’t matter if they’re both happy? Isn’t that how it is supposed to be with the people you care about?

“Thanks, Bittle. I’m pretty happy for me, too.” He grins, and Eric can’t resist affectionately bumping his shoulder into Jack’s calf, where it’s bent up next to him. Jack bumps him back. 

 

09/18/2016  
Eric: Congratulations :) that takes nerve. I’m proud of you  
Kent: ???  
Kent: Ah, right. Jack said he was on his way to meet you. Figures he told.  
Eric: Oh, sorry. Was this supposed to be like no kiss-and-tell?  
Kent: Nah, it’s fine. Thank you for pushing me to do it. I was scared shitless.  
Eric: I know. Like I said, it takes nerve. In a good way.

 

Saturday night is Jack’s last night in Boston, so the whole crew gathers in the den for the evening. The TV is on, more as a background soundtrack than for the sake of actually watching. Holster chose ESPN because the Aces have their season opener agains the New York Islanders tonight, and everyone likes to watch good hockey. 

Someone— if Eric hadn’t forgotten who, he would knock them over the head— thought it would be a good idea to pull out the board games. There were nearly four casualties over the course of the game of Sorry that they played, but it was fun so that counted for something, right? They gave up on it after a little while, and had taken to the couches in favor of gathering around the coffee table. Eric sat on the gross couch— he’d thrown a sheet over it— squished between Jack and Ransom. Holster was perched on the arm, though it looked like most of his weight was still on his feet. Lardo took one of the arm chairs and Dex snagged the other (The other two frogs didn’t let him have it to himself for long— the chair is now groaning beneath the weight of three piled hockey players).

It was a little past eight thirty when the game on the screen started with a late puck drop. The voice of the commentators and the clatter of pucks and sticks and bodies against boards fades into the background more quickly with this crowd than with most. It’s caertainly familiar enough. The Samwell Men’s Hockey team (or, at least, those of them that make a habit of hanging around the Haus) fill the space with stories and laughter, and Eric has all but forgotten that the television is even on until and exclamation from the screen draws all of their attention at once. 

It’s late in the third period, and the Aces are up by two. Not a bad night for them.

Until right this second. Eric glances up for a moment, just in time to catch a cut shot on the screen. The camera transmits a close up shot of a player in a white and black jersey pushing up from the ice during a break in play. The motion is slow the way it always is when a player is in pain. It takes Eric a long moment to recognize who it is; it only clicks when he feels Jack tense up beside him. 

_“Oh! Kent Parson is down on the ice!”_ One announcer calls.

_“What happened?”_ The other asks. 

_“I’m not quite sure. It looks like he did something to his shoulder.”_

_“We have the replay.”_

A close up shot of whatever play Eric and the rest of the team missed plays on the screen. Kent moves up the ice with the puck in slow motion, one of the opposing defensemen tailing him a few paces behind. He releases the puck for a shot on goal, and that’s when it happens. In the follow-through, his stick gets caught between one of his pursuer’s stick and his body just as the player is stopping to avoid an illegal check. It sets up perfectly. Kent’s arm is wrenched across his body, and he rotates as he falls, his shoulder colliding with brutal force as he hits the ice. 

_“He’s skating off the ice, but it looks like he’s being taken straight back to the locker room. That’s never a good sign, Steven.”_

_“Yeah, look at the way he holds his arm as he skates, too. Hopefully it won’t be any damage that lasts. What an unfortunate start to the season.”_

_“Indeed, and it was just bad timing. There were no illegal actions on either part. On the up-side, he’ll be happy to know that his goal will be counted—"_

Eric stopped listening. He could barely hear through the cotton in his ears anyway. Jack had jumped to his feet the moment that Kent was shown on the ice, but he hadn’t moved from where he stood until the game resumed play. Eric watches as he begins to pat all of the pockets on his jeans. 

“Shit, where’s my phone?” Jack turns back to the couch and starts to slide his hands down the cracks between the cushions. 

Eric slides his out of his pocket, “Here, I’ll text him.” 

Every head in the room whips towards him, and it isn’t until a moment later that Eric realizes that that might have been a very stupid thing to say out loud. The instant it hits him, Eric wants to slap his hand over his mouth. He want to sink into the floor and disappear. He wants to never speak again. 

Instead, he looks down at his phone with contrived focus and pulls up Kent’s conversation thread. Suddenly, sending this text message feels like the most important thing in the world. 

The room stays silent while Eric types out a short, _you okay?_ He doesn’t glance up, he doesn’t try to explain. The room remains mortifyingly silent. He tries to swallow, tries to think of anything to say to make this easier, and all he comes up with is that this is exactly like the Fourth of July; watching TV with a bunch of people he loves— a sports game, no less, with announcer’s comments that hit just a little too close to home and Eric’s skin being flayed off his body so that everyone sees everything he’s been hiding. 

He stares at his phone for a long while, hoping that Kent will text him back right away so that he will have an excuse to not deal with this for a little longer. So that he can do something that will not involve thinking about how he always disappoints important people and how Jack is never going to talk to him again. With no response forthcoming, though, he tacks on, _Let me know what’s happening when you have a chance._ Are you going to be alright tonight? Is Jenna or your mom home? Then he takes a deep breath and looks up. 

They are all still staring at him. Ransom leans over and reads the texts off his phone. “Who’s Jenna?” 

Eric doesn’t answer at him, though; he is stuck looking at Jack. Jack had frozen, bent over with his hand still in between the couch’s cushion and arm. At Ransom’s question, Jack finally pulls up and tosses his hands in the air helplessly, “When on earth did you meet Jenna? Not only do you have Parson’s number, but you somehow met his sister?” Eric supposes that Ransom got an answer to his question anyway. “No seriously, when could this possibly have—" 

Jack cut himself off in the middle of another wild gesture, and his hands flop back down to his sides, limp. It’s quiet for another long moment while everyone waits him out. When he puts his realization into words, Eric’s blood runs cold at the flat tone, “Kent is the friend in New York?” 

Trust Jack to put the pieces together like that. Eric is rescued from responding to that right away— even as Lardo lets out a low whistle and Dex muttered a muted “damn”— when his phone buzzes in his hand. He glances down at the screen. 

“Kent says he’s on the way to the hospital. He dislocated his shoulder, and they think he might have broken something too.” Another buzz, “And he’s home alone tonight. Which is dumb.” 

Eric is getting really sick of the overbearing silences, but it seems like everyone genuinely has no idea what to say to that. Eric’s not really sure how to respond to that either. 

“That is dumb,” Jack agrees. Then, “I’m going.” 

And, just like that, Jack walks out of the room and down the hallway towards the door. 

“He doesn’t mean that he’s going to New York, does he?” Chowder asks. 

Nursey scoffs, “Would you expect anything less from Jack Zimmermann? I don’t know that he knows how to—“ 

“If you say ‘chill,’ I will not hesitate to knock your lights out,” Dex interjects.

Eric wants to tell them to shut it, but he knows that it wouldn’t be fair to them; he can’t take his frustration out on them. 

He watches Jack walk away and realizes with perfect certainty that this might be his only chance to fix this. Jack is leaving to go help Parse, but he is also leaving to get away from Eric. Eric knows it. And he knows that if he lets Jack leave now, he might never be able to get his trust back again— at least, not in full. The mere thought of it nearly kills Eric, so he jumps to his feet, races down the hallway, and catches to door just as it is about to close. Jack stares at him. 

“I’m coming with,” Eric says, and for a moment, he is certain that Jack is going to protest, but then he just heaves a sigh and keeps walking. Eric takes it as an invitation to follow.

 

**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease  
tfw everything comes back to bite you in the behind. *sigh*

 

One hour into the three hour drive, Eric it starting to regret his decision. Not to go after Jack, but to spend an extended amount of time in an enclosed space with one of the most emotionally challenged people he knows. 

Well, emotionally challenged when it comes to talking; he does just fine with showing— they _are_ taking a spontaneous road trip to New York, after all. 

It’s really perfect timing, in the worst sot of way. Kent got hurt the weekend after he began the process of making up with Jack— and Eric knows that Jack never would have considered taking this trip if that hadn’t happened first— and that weekend just happened to be the weekend Jack is with Eric. It set up so seamlessly that it’s almost ridiculous.

Neither of them have said a word since they’ve left campus. Jack is driving, and he keeps his eyes on the road for the entire hour. His eyebrows are crumpled up in distress, and it pulls at Eric’s heartstrings. The radio is off, and the interstate is practically empty. Eric is suffocating. 

Eventually, he accepts the fact that it’s probably his responsibility to start this. Eric braces himself and says, “I’m really, really sorry,” because that seems like the only way to begin. It comes out small and quiet, but it is more than enough to be heard. 

Jack blows a loud breath out of his nose. “For what?” 

Eric turns his head away from the window that he had been staring out and looks at Jack, confused. He thought that much would be relatively self explanatory. 

Jack glances over at him, only taking his eyes off the road for a split second, “Because I don’t want you to be sorry for being friends—or whatever— with Parse. I’m not mad about that.” 

A surprised “Really?” escapes Eric. But he’s glad, because he doesn’t really want to apologize for being friends with Kent. That doesn’t seem fair to Kent. Or to himself, for that matter. Being friends with Kent is something he is grateful for, and he doesn’t want to feel guilty about it forever. 

Jack sighs and pulls a hand from the steering wheel to rub at his eyebrow.“Bittle. He was my best friend for years. I definitely understand the draw. What I want you to be sorry for is that you didn’t tell me.” He rests his elbow on the windowsill, leaning on it to keep his fingers pressed into his temple. He only holds it a moment before dropping his hand back down, moving like he can’t settle in his skin. “I mean, you went and stayed with him in New York for however long this summer, and I didn’t even know you talked to each other. And maybe it’s not really my business because it’s your relationship with him, but…” And Even Eric doesn’t think Jack is being fair to himself; he’s allowed to ask for it to be his business. “Bittle— Eric, you are one of my best friends, and I don’t have a lot of those. And you didn’t bother to _tell_ me.” 

Any guilt that Eric felt before is nothing in comparison to the monster that is eating his stomach now. “I know, and I am sorry for that. I _am._ ” 

Jack nodded, then continued, “It’s just— you didn’t even give me the chance to react well to it, either. You just assumed that I would be angry or whatever. You didn’t give me a _chance._ ” Jack tightens his hands on the steering wheel until they turn white and pinches his lips together. “I can’t honestly tell you that I wouldn’t have been shocked, I wouldn’t have been confused, and I wouldn’t have been upset. Because I definitely would have been all of those things. But I would have gotten over it and I wouldn’t have taken it out on you.” 

“You’re right. I know you are. And I’m sorry that I didn’t do this the right way. I was scared, and I let that justify being unfair to you. I’m sorry.” Eric will say it a hundred times if it will get Jack to stop looking like he’s been unjustly kicked. He whispers it one more time, “I’m sorry.”

Jack is quiet for a long, long time. Eric watches the signs on the highway go by because it is easier than watching Jack’s stoney face. A few miles pass, and Jack sighs, “I know you’re sorry.” He groans and rubs a hand over his face, “We’ve just been messy as all hell, lately, haven’t we? First, I missed your distress call, now this. I wonder what’s next.” 

Eric could see that he was still upset in the tension of his shoulders and the creases on his face, but he again starts to think that maybe he was right to come. He was right that this was the best way to fix it. “It just means that we can work on being better friends together. Like all the other class projects we did together. A little less fun then baking a pie, but…” Eric shrugs.

Jack huffs a quiet laugh, and then the car falls quiet again, but it’s much more comfortable this time. It stays like that until Jack says, “Okay, but you do need to tell me how this happened because I am genuinely confused.” 

Eric laughs shyly, “That’s fair. It started after Epikegster. I overheard Kent saying those terrible things to you, so I followed him out to give him a piece of my mind.” 

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, “Ah, yeah, I’m sorry you heard all that, but it’s the way Kent is when he is upset. Goes for the throat, and whatnot. I know that, even if knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with when it’s your throat he’s leapt for.” 

“Yeah, I’m learning that,” Eric agrees. “Don’t make it okay, though. It’s something for him to work on.” 

Jack hummed in agreement before prompting, “Anyway, go on.” 

So Eric tells him about the conversation on the porch and the twitter conversations and how Kent responded when he made the tweet about needing to leave home. He talks about the time that he spent in New York— going to bakeries and New York landmarks, and small diners. 

When he finished, Jack casts him a sidelong look, “And then you hooked up with him.” 

Eric startled, “What?” 

“Your summer hookup? You said that you hooked up with the friend you stayed with in New York.” 

Oh. Right. Eric had forgotten about Friday night. In a flash of horror, Eric remembers that he also practically confessed to being super into Jack— he wonders if Jack remembers. And worse, he told Jack that Kent was still into Jack, and if that’s not a breech of confidence, Eric doesn’t know what is. 

But Eric would worry about that later. For now, “Yeah, then I hooked up with him.” 

Jack quirked half a smile in his direction, “So I guess we’re Eskimo brother’s, then.” 

“I’m sorry, we’re what?” 

“Eskimo brothers? You know, like, two people who have hooked up with the same person?”

Wait, _what?_

Kent and _Jack?_

Eric’s brain stutters, then clicks into overdrive. He thinks about Jack and Kent both looking a little rumpled after they were together in Jacks room (Or is his memory just exaggerating that?). He thinks about Kent telling him that he’s not straight (But that doesn’t mean he hooked up with Jack, right?). He thinks about every time that he has assumed that Jack is straight (Didn’t he hook up with Camilla Collins from the tennis team?), and how, really, that’s never been corroborated by Jack, ever. 

Eric doesn’t know what to do with this, right now, and quite frankly, there is nothing that says he has to do anything. So he does what he is good at and avoids. He pulls his mind away from the implication of Jack’s confession, tucks the thoughts and feelings away for later examination. 

Or he tries to. His brains is still whirling, and it takes all he has to find something to say in response to Jack (What else did he say? Oh right— ‘eskimo’ what?), and he thinks he sounds a little hysterical when he laughs and asks, “You have a name for that?” 

“Yeah, you guys don’t keep track of eskimo siblings down south?”   “No!” Eric looks at Jack suspiciously, “I think you’re making that up.”

“No, really, it’s a thing. You can ask Kent, if you’d like.” 

Eric splutters, “You know, maybe I will.” 

 

**Kent Parson** @90KParse  
Thanks to all of you who have sent messages. I’m alright and back at home, but I might be out for a little while :(

 

Eric and Jack are silent as they approach the door to Kent’s apartment building. It’s one in the morning, and even the City That Never Sleeps seems quiet. Eric greets Randy the Doorman at the entrance and is pleasantly surprised to find that Randy remembered him. 

“I think you’re still on the security list, so I can let you right up,” Randy tells them, typing in a few commands at the front desk computer. The door leading to the elevator bank buzzes and unlocks, and Eric leads Jack up to the penthouse floor. 

At the top, both of them fall into a deliberate silence, the way that feels only natural at hours when most of the world seems asleep. Eric reaches for the top of the doorframe for the key, but he can see right away what is going to happen. He tries anyway, and his fingers fall inches short of the top of the frame, as he expected. Eric turns back towards Jack with a flat stare, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh before reaching up to grab the key. He slides it into the lock, and twists the door open slowly, carful not to let it creak. 

Their effort at quiet was for naught, it seems. Kent sits on the couch in the living room, head tipped back to rest on the back of the seat but very much awake. He startles when he hears their footsteps, twisting his whole body to see them. 

“What.” Then, like an afterthought, “The fuck.” 

He looks exhausted, Eric thinks. His eyes are a little droopy, and the muscles around his eyebrows are all tense, like everything he thinks and everything he does must be an enormous effort. His left arm is wrapped up in a sling. 

But there is something else, and it is hidden in the scrunch across the bridge of his nose and the faint but tense downturn at the corner of his lips. Kent’s not just tired; he also looks a little bit pissed off.

_Oh dear._


End file.
